Assassin's Creed: Age of Kings
by MISTER MacUpdatesTooRarely
Summary: The war between the Assassins and the Templars continues in 16th century England as Henry VIII moves to take control over the people's hearts and minds as well as their bodies. Work-in-progress, but expect infrequent updates.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**London, 1534**

"Out of my way!" Roger Arterton, messenger and soldier of the king's court, shouldered people aside as he ran through the crowded London street. That he could speak at all was a miracle to him; his chest was tight with terror, and he clutched at the satchel over his shoulder with a death grip. He couldn't hear it above the din of the streets, but he knew the hooded man was still in hot pursuit on the roofs above. A braver man might draw his sword and try to take on his pursuer, but Arterton knew he couldn't possibly win, judging by the speed with which the obviously hostile stranger had dispatched Arterton's armed escorts. He tripped over a dog and paused long enough to curse it as he scrambled to his feet. In those few seconds he happened to glance up towards the rooftops; to his horror, the hooded stranger was almost directly above him, effortlessly leaping from balcony to buttress as he chased down the fleeing messenger. Even at this distance, Arterton could see the sword that hung at his hunter's side, and the sight of it induced yet more horror in the already terrified Englishman. He resumed his frantic sprint, perhaps faster than before. He ignored the indignant curses of the people he knocked aside, hearing only his own terrified breathing and the hammering of his heart.

Was it only minutes ago that the thing in white – no human could move like that – had dropped down from above and slaughtered the soldiers protecting Arterton without even drawing a sword? His mind could still vividly picture the crimson spray of blood that fountained into the air as each of his guards fell, though the killer had no obvious weapon drawn – a wrist-mounted blade, perhaps? He heard the screams of agony that were abruptly cut off as the man emitting them fell dead on the ground. With the strange clarity that comes in such moments, he realized that none of the five guards had even managed to draw their weapons before being struck down; one had gotten the blade halfway out of its sheath before two swipes of the attacker's hands had left great bloody gashes across his throat. He was lucky to be alive, lucky that one of the soldiers had yet lived after the lightning attack and reached for his sword. Had the scraping noise of the blade's metal on the hard leather sheath not distracted the killer from his slow advance on the petrified messenger, Arterton would likely be dead. Even so, his luck probably wasn't going to hold out much longer. Despite himself, he saw in his mind's eye the inhumanly graceful movements with which his pursuer traversed the makeshift highway above. He saw the booted feet dance lightly from one improvised stepping stone to the next, coming ever closer to the end of Roger Arterton.

"Out of my way, damn you!" he roared as he continued his desperate sprint. Where were the guards? Where were all the damn soldiers who were supposed to be patrolling the streets? _Why wasn't anyone doing anything? _Then again, what could anyone do against so deadly a foe? Arterton backhanded a man out of his way and skidded around a corner. In his haste to escape, he didn't realize the alley was a dead end – oh, what an ominous phrase – until he nearly ran into the wall that blocked his path. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he muttered as he frantically searched the walls on either side for a door, a window – anything that could give him a way out. A shadow fell on him, and he looked up into the sky. His heart leapt into his throat as he saw the silhouette of his pursuer standing on a beam high above. "Oh God, no," Arterton whispered. The hooded man set one foot back, then leapt into the air. Arterton screamed as he realized the man was going to land right on him. He continued screaming as he saw the sun glint off steel that seemed to come from the killer's arm. He continued screaming right until nearly a foot of forged metal penetrated his skull as the weight of his murderer drove his body to the ground.

Minutes later, when a patrol of soldiers was finally drawn to the area by the cries of the crowd, they found a body that had been rearranged to imitate a peaceful slumber – with the exception of a hole in its forehead and the pool of blood around it. Not having been aware of its presence, none of the guards noticed that the body was missing a satchel containing documents the king himself treasured almost as much as his own life. None of them knew the importance of those documents as weapons in a dark war that had been waged since well before they were more than twinkles in their mothers' eyes, a secret war concerning the very fate of the human race – a war of knights and Assassins.


	2. La Parola Scritta Non è Fedele

**Chapter On****e: ****La**** Parola**** Scritta ****non ****è**** Fedele**

"I can never enjoy these parties," Robert Ludlum grumbled as his manservant shut the door of the manor. Tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed more a soldier than a nobleman even garbed in English finery.

"Oh hush," his wife told him as a well-practiced smile fell away from her elegantly beautiful face, though a mischievous sparkle remained dancing merrily in her deep blue eyes. "You know why we keep having them."

"I also know why there are several days in a month when I cannot enjoy your more physical charms, but that does not in any way mean I condone it."

Annette laughed her bubbly laugh at her husband's wit as she took his arm with one delicate, long-fingered hand and led him from the front hall. "Enough of that, love," she said as they entered the library. "We've business to attend to."

"Indeed we do," Robert sighed as he sank into an elegantly carved chair near the fireplace. "And a sorry business it is, leaving dead messengers around the city."

"It was _one _messenger, which of course makes it impossible to have left dead ones all over the city. Barring dismemberment, of course," a man in one of the chairs by the fire replied. He tucked the rosary he'd been twirling into a pouch somewhere in the folds of his priestly robes and stood. "And before you continue making jokes about it, you may want to look at these," he continued, throwing a packet of papers onto the table in the middle of the room. Robert stood and walked to the table, then picked up the envelope on top and opened it carefully. Thre three fell silent as he slowly read through the letter inside.

"Our beloved monarch grows bolder," Robert commented, his dark eyes still on the piece of paper.

"And more upset with Clement," the tall blonde priest commented. "Neither development is unsurprising, but they are most unwelcome. This will not be good for us."

"Ever the pessimist, James," Annette remarked as she too began perusing the heap. "Still, I suppose this does call for a closer watch on the King's activities. Has Charles returned from Northumberland yet?" This last was addressed to her husband.

"Not yet, but I expect him back within the week."

"I'll handle it," Father James Connelly volunteered. The man wasn't technically a Catholic priest – though his order had been formed a decade earlier, the Church hadn't formally recognized it yet – but technicalities mattered little to the people in such a time of disorder. What did matter was that those still unwilling to accept the new religion had someone to turn to. His position made Connelly uniquely suited to information-gathering – something Ludlum, his immediate superior, put to good use.

Ludlum nodded his approval, then turned to Annette. "See what your friends in court know. I want to find out what the Boleyn girl thinks of all this."

"She does have a name, husband of mine," Annette laughed lightly, still flipping through the papers. She suddenly stopped and caught one with her thumb and forefinger, her expression changing from benign cheerfulness to serious contemplation. "Well, that's interesting." The two mens' gazes immediately snapped to her as she singled out an envelope and slit it open with the small knife she always kept up one sleeve. "Now what do you suppose our beloved King Henry had to say to Thomas Cranmer?"

"Nothing we want to hear, be sure of that," Connelly promised darkly. Robert silenced him with a crook of his finger.

Finally, Annette sighed and placed the letter atop the pile. The firelight danced on her ivory skin and cast a shimmer over her raven hair. "Henry wants Cranmer to return to London at once. He's planning to dissolve the monasteries."

"Good," Robert remarked, "let them find somewhere else from whence to bother the Lord. Other than solidifying his position as head of England's religion – no small matter in itself," he admitted, catching the look on Connelly's face, "what else does that gain him?"

"The dissolution of the monasteries means their lands and wealth go to the crown," Annette answered plainly. "And I think we can all agree that more power – physical or otherwise – is hardly what Henry needs."

"But why does he need Cranmer for that?" Connelly asked. "It's Henry and that snake Cromwell who hold the power."

"Well, he's the Archbishop of Canterbury, isn't he?" Robert supplied. "Technically, Henry can't make a move like this without Cranmer's blessing, even if it's little more than a farcical formality. Henry's needed Cranmer's support since the beginning of this little Reformation of his.

"The question is, what do we do now?"

After a moment's reflection, Connelly stated, "I think we can all agree that Cranmer needs to die. We should have acted long ago, when we could have prevented this madness."

Robert nodded his acquiesence. "I agree. Are you volunteering, James?"

"Yes. I can be in – "

"Before you run off murdering the king's friends," Annette interrupted, another newly-opened letter in her hand, "we should look to our own." Once more, the two men turned their full attention to her. She handed the letter to Connelly as she explained, "This is an order for John Fisher's arrest. It seems Henry wants him back in the Tower of London."

"On what charges?" Robert asked, shifting his focus to Connelly.

"Officially, misprision of treason under the Act of Succession," Connelly answered, his grim green eyes still flicking back and forth over the words. "Unofficially…" The priest paused, and when he resumed his voice took on an even more serious edge than it usually had. "Henry's discovered a most inconvenient truth. He knows John Fisher is an ally of the Assassin Order."

* * *

"I told you to entrust your best man with those letters."

"I did, milord."

"I ordered you to send your best soldiers with him."

"I did, milord."

"I instructed you to select the most complicated, most crowded route through the city so an ambush of any kind would be next to impossible."

"I did, milord."

"You have said that thrice now," Henry VIII of the House of Tudor, King of England and Lord of Ireland, grumbled angrily as he tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne. "You repeatedly insist that you gave the letters to your best soldier, surrounded him with your most highly-trained guards, and had them take a route that would prove nigh impossible to intercept."

"I did, milord." The man on his knees before the throne was beginning to tremble.

"Then why are the letters gone?" the king roared, shooting to his feet.

"Your Majesty, I – "

"You _failed _me!" Henry bellowed, striking the kneeling courtier to the ground. "Everything I have worked for may have been undone because of you!"

"My lord, we can still – "

"_We _can do nothing," Henry cut the man's stuttering pleas off. "_You _are no longer of any use to me. Take him away!" The last words were directed at the guards standing just inside the throne room. The pair wordlessly obeyed the king's order and dragged the protesting man from the king's presence. Henry's advisers remained silent as their monarch sank back into his throne, his head in his hands.

"We need to move fast, my king." Henry looked up as his chief minister Thomas Cromwell approached the throne. "Cranmer is in danger so long as he remains outside the city."

"You seem to believe London is itself fully secure," Henry grumbled as he signalled a servant for wine. "Recent events would indicate otherwise, I should think."

"Not London, no, but our enemies would not dare strike us within these very walls."

Henry nodded thoughtfully as he accepted a goblet. "You are correct about that; they'd certainly think twice about assaulting my own palace. But the letters – "

"The letters are beyond our power to retrieve, my liege. We must concentrate on what we have some degree of control over. Assemble an armed escort and send them to bring Cranmer back to London. Even the Assassins wouldn't dare attack a column of horsemen; they haven't the strength of numbers."

"Privy to the inner workings of their order, are we?"

"Merely being logical, my lord. Had they the forces to defeat our soldiers in any great number, they would have done so by now rather than striking at small targets."

Henry nodded in agreement and gestured one of his guards to approach the throne, which the man did. "Gather twenty horsemen and send them to fetch Cranmer from Sherwood. Two carriages; armed guards in one, the other with a single soldier." The guard nodded his understanding and disappeared from the hall with remarkable swiftness. "Now that's taken care of," the king said, turning back to Cromwell, "what do we do about Fisher? The Assassins now have his arrest order in their hands, and you can be sure they will take measures to protect him."

"The arrest must proceed nonetheless and _immediately_," Cromwell insisted. "If we move swiftly, our men will at least be able to intercept their rescue attempt." Unable to see any alternatives, Henry could only nod again as he summoned another soldier to his side.

"Arrest John Fisher, immediately."

* * *

"It's settled, then," Robert declared as he strode down a corridor towards his private study, Annette and Connelly in tow. "James, set off for Sherwood as soon as you can. The king will not be sitting idle on his throne. Annette, send a messenger off to Charles, someone we can trust; hopefully they'll pass on the road. James may need his assistance." Annette and Connelly both tilted their heads in acknowledgement, and the priest peeled off in the direction of the entrance hall. "Once you've sent the letter off," Robert continued as husband and wife entered his oak-paneled study, "prepare another one for Anne. Warn her that the king is onto us, but be discreet."

"As always," Annette assured her husband as he finally stopped in front of the room's sole bookcase. He reached to one side and depressed a tile slightly behind the woodwork. Hidden gears ground, and the bookcase along with the wall behind it slid to one side, revealing a small unornamented room. "What of you, my love?"

"Time is of the essence," Robert replied as he began removing the vestments of an English noble until he stood in only a black tunic, pale cream breeches, and a pair of leather boots. "If there is to be any hope of rescuing Fisher, he will have to be moved tonight." As he disrobed, his wife opened a sturdy iron chest against the wall opposite the secret door. From it she lifted a stack of assorted weapons and articles of clothing.

In silence, Annette pulled a blood-red doublet over her husband, over which went a dark gray leather jerkin attached to a leather pauldron. As Robert pulled a pair of long black leather gloves over his hands and tucked them into the sleeves, Annette buckled a diagonal leather strap that ran from her husband's right shoulder to his left hip. To hold this and the jerkin in place, she fastened a leather belt around his waist.

A sheath was buckled to both the diagonal and horizontal belts to keep it steady, and into this went a finely-wrought schiavona which Robert had received as a gift from some friends in Italy. Annette twisted the sword around to ensure it sat snugly in its glove.

As Annette adjusted the fit of all the leatherwork, Robert snapped an unusually heavy vambrace over his left forearm. He flexed his wrist a few times before attaching the vambrace's twin to his right forearm, then tightened the straps holding the pair in place. After making sure his wife was out of the way, he triggered the hidden mechanism on each bracer, causing a thin steel blade nearly as long as his forearm to erupt from the underside of each bracer. Robert cocked his head to one side and inspected each of the traditional Assassin weapons, running a leather-clad finger along each one before finally retracting them.

As he checked his weapons, Annette strapped a pair of plate greaves to Robert's shins, to each of which was fitted a sheath holding a small steel dagger with an elaborately carved ebony handle. She tightened the straps of the greaves before finally standing to put on the finishing touches. Using equipment from a small box on a shelf, she loaded the miniscule pistols that sat beside the hidden blades, then stepped back to look her husband over. He silently awaited her approval, a half-grin tugging at one side of his mouth. Finally, she nodded and threw a black cloak over his shoulders, fastening it by means of hook-and-eye devices to the pauldron.

She followed Robert as he exited the secret room and caused the bookcase to slide back into place by pressing another panel.

"I'll rescue him myself."

In his modest residence beside the church he'd until recently held Mass at, James Connelly was making his own preparations. Over his own tunic and breeches – both white – went a three-piece metal chestguard and brown leather vest, the latter long enough to cover his upper legs. He bent down and snapped a pair of greaves over his black boots, making sure the throwing knives were snug in their sheaths. A leather belt the width of his hand went around his waist, and to it he attached the six-buckled sheath of his exotic curved talwar, one of the many odds and ends he'd picked up on his travels. A second belt festooned with small leather bags joined the sword belt. Finally, the hallmark vambrace of the Assassin Order went over his left forearm. A second one went onto his right, though unlike Robert Ludlum's, the right vambrace was not equipped with the Mockingbird Gun, as they had come to call the miniscule firearm.

Connelly donned a white cloak and pulled its hood up over his head as he stepped out into the cold night. At the same time, Robert Ludlum emerged atop his manor, his face already hidden in the hood of his black cloak. With one last look at the warmth of their homes, both men vanished into the night to continue the work of their ancient order.


	3. La Nuit N'est Jamais Vide

**Chapter Two: ****La nuit n'est jamais vide**

His cloak billowing behind him, Robert Ludlum ran lightly over London's rooftops. He vaulted over a row of chimneys and hit the tiles running, his stride unbroken. Upon reaching the edge of a roof, he leaped into the air and somersaulted onto a balcony across the street, one floor below. He sprang off almost as soon as he touched the floor, quickly climbing a vine-wrapped trellis to resume his journey across the so-called Thieves' Highway.

Though it was late in the night, the darkness did not inconvenience the Assassin at all. His training included multiple techniques to improve his vision in low light, and in any case he'd always had powerful eyesight. It also included the use of the shadows to shroud his form; when he had to step into the moonlight, he did so swiftly enough that any observers would have seen no more than a flash of darkness where there had been none moments before – and where there was nothing again within seconds. He covered the two kilometres to John Fisher's abode within ten minutes, no small feat even if he hadn't been armed to the teeth. A final athletic vault over a row of chimneys deposited him on a third-storey terrace with only a slight _thud _and a rasp of leather to alert anyone nearby. Ludlum stood and strode to the solid wooden door, drawing his cloak about him. He didn't bother to knock before pushing the door open and walking into the firelit room beyond. His eyes briefly went over the finery around the study before coming to rest on a figure seated by the stone fireplace.

"Dare I hope you've come bearing no more than a desire to sample some new wines?" the figure enquired, though his hoarse voice betrayed that he already knew the answer would not be to his liking.

"The king has issued an order for your immediate arrest," Ludlum bluntly informed him, pulling back his black cloak. The elderly man sighed as the Assassin continued, "We must leave immediately. Henry's soldiers could already be on their way."

John Fisher, former Bishop of Rochester and now enemy of the Crown, rose reluctantly from his upholstered armchair, still sighing. "Give me a moment to pack." Fisher had no servants, having essentially forfeited all his personal property since his last imprisonment. Though he'd once been one of Henry's greatest assets, his staunch opposition towards the King's divorce from Catherine of Aragon had earned him the ire of the Crown. After appealing to the Holy See for aid against Henry's attacks on the Catholic Church, Fisher and two others had been arrested when the King issued an edict making such acts illegal. Though he'd been freed scarcely two months later, the stress of recent years combined with even a short prison stint made Fisher appear far older than his sixty-three years. No doubt the danger he once more found himself in did little to ease his tired body.

"Only the essentials," Ludlum warned the old man. "Do you need help?"

Fisher laughed as he headed towards the door of what Ludlum knew was his bedroom. "I'm old and sick, not dead. Yet. I don't expect we'll – "

The sound of a body being thrown against wood interrupted Fisher. Someone was trying to break down the front door. Ludlum swore, then threw himself against the wall beside the door to the landing. "Hide," he instructed Fisher as he drew his paired fighting knives. "We can make our escape once they've been slain." To his surprise – and consternation – Fisher shook his head sadly.

"Not tonight, Robert."

"You're surrendering?" Ludlum asked incredulously.

"Robert, what do you think will happen if Henry learns that someone murdered half a dozen of his soldiers and helped me escape?"

"He would – "

"He would flood the city with his men to find us. He does not know you, and so you are safe, but he will not stop hunting me until he has me back in the Tower."

"You were perfectly fine with escape a moment ago! Why does this change anything?" Ludlum flinched involuntarily as the door two floors below finally gave way with a powerful _crack_. "We need to go, _now_."

"Never mind that, Robert. Listen to me very carefully." Something in the old man's voice compelled Ludlum to obey, and he nodded as Fisher continued, "Make yourself scarce. When they've gone, check the desk in my bedroom. One of the legs is hollow. Take what's inside." The sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs grew louder; their time was almost up. Ludlum nodded his understanding and dashed for the open balcony door. He twisted and leaped for the roof above the doorway, pulling himself up explosively enough that his booted feet hit the tiles as the door to the room he'd just left flew open. Carefully perched a short distance from the edge of the roof, Ludlum closed his eyes and listened intently to the sounds coming from inside.

Somewhat to the soldiers' credit, they didn't bother with much preamble. "John Fisher, you are under arrest on charges of misprision of treason."

"You'll find no resistance here, Captain," was Fisher's tired reply. Ludlum heard the sound of manacles being snapped on the old man's wrists.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry it came to this," the soldier's voice said, this time a note of regret entering it. There was the scuff of booted footsteps on wood as the soldiers led Fisher out. The Assassin waited a few minutes to ensure the room was empty before opening his eyes and preparing to descend from the roof. Before he could drop down onto the balcony, however, he heard the door open again. Someone – two or three men, judging by the sound of the footsteps – walked into the study.

"Search every corner and ever nook," an authorative voice commanded. "Any letters, any documents – bring them to the barracks." One of the men, presumably the commander who'd spoken, exited. The sound of shuffling papers and wooden drawers being opened told Ludlum the soldiers inside had immediately begun their work.

Ludlum drew a breath and whispered, "Damn." He'd hoped to get through the night with no bloodshed; he was a master executioner, but he still preferred remaining undetected. While he could wait until the two left, the risk was too great that they'd discover whatever Fisher had meant for him; he didn't know how well the old man had secured it. His mind made up, the Master Assassin dropped silently into the shadows on the terrace. The door leading into the study hadn't been closed, and he could see two armed guards within conducting their search. Neither was heavily armed or armored, each carrying only a sword and protected only by leather jackets.

The Assassin waited until the sound of bootsteps on the cobbled streets below faded away before entering the room. A flick of his wrists extended the deadly hidden blades from their underarm housings as he walked silently across the hardwood floor. The soldiers remained unaware of his presence, so absorbed were they in their work that he began to believe the night would pass without incident. Fate, however, had other plans; as Ludlum came within ten feet of the pair, one of the men knocked over an inkwell and bent to pick it up when he caught sight of the hooded Assassin. He began to call out a warning while his hand flew for his sword, but in one swift motion, Ludlum drew a throwing knife from a set at his back and whipped it into the soldier's throat. The man fell backwards onto the table behind him, his neck a bloody mess, but Ludlum had already lost the element of surprise; the other soldier spun quickly to face the threat, drawing his sword at the same time.

Ludlum sprang forward and snapped both blades towards his target's throat, but the soldier brought his sword up in time to intercept the Assassin's weapons. Rather than trying to force the blades in anyway, Ludlum danced backwards, then twisted on one foot and slammed a kick into the soldier's sword arm. Using the momentum from the spinkick, Ludlum brought his blades up and slashed through the man's neck. Blood spurted onto the Assassin's robes, and the dying soldier fell to the floor almost simultaneously with his weapon.

Sheathing his blades, Ludlum knelt beside the dying soldier, shaking his head sadly. He was no more than a boy, really, still too young to even grow a proper beard. Ludlum drew his remaining warknife and plunged it into the lad's chest, ending his suffering. "_Utinam__ esset __aliter__," _the Assassin muttered as he extracted his blade and sheathed it._"__Requiescas __in __pace__."_ A bubbling noise told him the other soldier still lived, and he rose to his feet. Careful not to slip in the rapidly spreading pool of blood, Ludlum made his way to his first victim and bent down. He unsheathed one of his hidden blades, murmered a soft prayer in Latin, then stabbed the cold steel upwards through the soldier's jaw into his brain. The man's movements ceased immediately, and Ludlum retrieved his knife from the corpse. The entire episode had lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, but Ludlum wasn't ready to take the risk that anyone had heard the commotion. Sheathing his weapons, he stood and walked to the door to Fisher's bedroom.

The bedchamber was surprisingly small, even considering Fisher's reduced estate. The desk Ludlum sought was the only piece of furniture aside from a narrow bed, and he strode to it quickly, eager to be out of the house as soon as possible. He knelt and rapped each leg with his gloved fist, finally being rewarded with an echo that told him he'd found the correct one. Fisher hadn't explained how to open the wooden cylinder, but like many Master Assassins, Ludlum had a gift for finding that which was invisible to others. His fingers drifted lightly over the filigree near the bottom of the desk leg before pressing a knot of golden wire. Something within the desk clicked, and a section of wood swung out on a hinge to reveal a tightly-rolled scroll tied with a length of string.

"Well hello there. What have we here?"

* * *

The same question was upon James Connelly's mind at that very moment. Moving silently as he could, the priest trailed a group of guardsmen through the city streets from on high. It was chance that he'd spotted them exiting their barracks, and something instinctive had told him they were on a mission of some sort. Seven men – too large for a patrol, and in any case, one of them seemed to be a courier of some sort. _Two in two days_, he reflected wryly. There were also the weapons to consider; though the supposed courier carried only a sword and appeared to have a pistol in his belt, four of the guards carried arquebuses at the ready while the other two held long halberds. Their armor was also heavier than what would be expected of a simple patrol. Something was afoot, and the best way to find out what was to discover the man's orders.

The Assassin waited until the party rounded a corner and entered a street whose lights were less than fully lit before he unsheathed his hidden blades and jumped from a second-storey balcony, his cape fluttering around him. He fell upon the two men closest to the courier – the halberdiers – driving a foot of steel into each of their necks. Before the others were fully aware of the danger that now stood in their midst, he withdrew the weapons from his victims and delivered a powerful kick to the messenger's right leg, breaking the knee and sending him to the street in agony.

Connelly whirled and slashed deeply into the throat of the nearest arquebusier before twisting away to slam both blades into the chest of another. He saw that one of the two remaining guns was almost aimed at him, and so he skipped forward and yanked the weapon to one side one hand while the other – and its weapon – drove towards the arquebusier's face. The blade pierced the man's eye socket and entered his brain, killing him immediately. Connelly sheathed his weapons as he spun and slammed the heel of his boot into the last soldier's main arm, the one nearest his weapon's trigger. As the man cried out and released the firearm, the Assassin threw one arm around his neck and wrenched it sideways, hard. A _snap _of breaking bone accompanied the sudden loss of resistance from the now-dead soldier.

As he released the body, Connelly became aware that the messenger was trying to crawl away. The priest sighed and stepped in front of the soldier, whose terrified gaze travelled up the Assassin's boots to his shadowed face.

"What are you?" he managed to croak. He knew better than to try to fight; he was surrounded by ample evidence of the futility of such an attempt.

"_Angelus sum fato_," was Connelly's cryptic reply. _I am an Angel of Fate. _"Where were you headed?" The man sputtered incoherently before reaching for something at his belt. Connelly's sword was drawn and pressed to the man's neck in a heartbeat. Unwilling to trust even someone so obviously frightened, the Assassin bent down and turned the soldier over. In one gloved hand was clenched a paper scroll, which Connelly promptly relieved him of. He returned his sword to its scabbard and unrolled the scroll, but planted one boot on his captive's neck and applied just enough pressure to trouble his breathing without stopping it. Prisoners were no good dead, after all – at least not until they had shared everything they knew. Though the night was dim, Connelly had little trouble reading the contents of the letter.

Fortune, it was said, favored the bold. Tonight, that was James Connelly. The scroll contained orders to one Captain Bartholomew Hartford, commanding him to assemble an escort to bring Thomas Cranmer back to London. Though he held little respect for the man, Connelly grudgingly admitted that Henry had been quick to react, though the devious minister Cromwell had likely had something to do with it.

"You were on your way to deliver this to Hartford, yes? You are the only messenger?" Connelly lifted his boot slightly so the man could speak, though it was several seconds before he could draw in enough breath for a coherent answer. Even so, he could barely speak without stuttering.

"Y-y-yes. We were to depart at dawn."

Connelly nodded and crumpled the paper into a ball. "Not any more." He raised his boot and brought it down hard with a sickening _crack_.

Though the man claimed to be the only messenger, the Assassin had a feeling that Cromwell would be smarter than to entrust only a single man with so important a task – not after such a mistake had already endangered their plans. He had likely delayed them, but not for long. Time was of the essence.

Tossing the paper ball into the flames of a nearby lantern, Connelly ascended the closest wall by means of improvised hand- and footholds. It took him less than a minute to regain the Thieves' Highway and continue his journey towards the outermost edges of London, where stables under Robert Ludlum's pay had a fast horse waiting for him. Even with the setback he had caused this Captain Hartford, he was still at a disadvantage; even if he arrived at Cranmer's residence before Henry's soldiers, there was no guarantee he could kill the Archbishop and make a clean escape in time. Hopefully he would encounter Charles Watson on the road; the apprentice Assassin's help would make things much easier.

_Mind on the job, lad_, he mentally chided himself as he continued his passage across the rooftops of London. There would be plenty of time to imagine once he was on the road; it would take nearly four days to ride to Sherwood. He was going to have to make the most of his time on his feet.

* * *

Within Fisher's scroll was another, smaller rolled-up sheet of paper. Both were now laid out on a table in Ludlum's study. The larger paper was covered in symbols, some familiar to the eyes of the woman studying them. The figures had immediately caught the attention of both husband and wife, resulting in its higher priority. The second paper lay temporarily forgotten beneath it. "It's a coded letter," Annette finally proclaimed, stretching her arms back to ease the stiffness. Though her husband had returned less than an hour ago with the documents and news of Fisher's arrest and instructions, she'd spent most of the time since bent over the table as she carefully studied the paper. Her husband leaned in closer; he still wore his Assassin garments, although he'd lowered the hood. Annette tapped the drawing of a chariot wheel with eight spokes as she explained, "This is the Dharmacakra. It's a Buddhist symbol for Gautama's Eight Noble Truths. Alone, it could mean anything or nothing, but this," here she tapped a cross shape crowned by a loop, "is the Egyptian _ankh,_ a symbol for eternal life. Together they could mean, 'the path to eternal enlightenment and life.'"

"That's a bit of a stretch," Ludlum commented, brushing back his hair. His eyes scanned the document again before conceding, "The pairing does repeat, though. You may be right."

"When have I ever been wrong, Robert?" Annette returned with a mischievous smile. Her mood turned serious again as she indicated another pictogram, that of a snake wrapped around a staff. "This is an asclepius wand, the symbol of medicine. My guess would be that they mean to cure something in order to _obtain _the path to eternal enlightenment.

"The question is, whose enlightenment?"

"And what kind of cure do they have in mind?" Robert added.

"They've already answered that," Annette told him. Her finger moved to another wheel-like drawing, this time with four spokes. "This sun wheel means dominion. Whatever and whomever they plan to cure, they mean to do it by force. And we both know who thinks that way," she finished grimly.

Instead of answering, Robert took the smaller piece of paper and placed it on top. On the upper right corner was an icon both Ludlums were very familiar with: a red cross on a white shield.

It didn't have to be said, but Robert did so anyway: "Templar."

Annette picked up the paper and scanned it carefully. "This is a list of names," she declared, "and in Fisher's handwriting. These must be Templar he's identified."

Robert moved closer to look at the list as well. "William Knight, Leonard Grey, Thomas Cusack, Cranmer, Cromwell," he recited. "It seems the entire English government is made of bloody Templar." After a moment, he reflected, "Some of these have question marks next to them. He must not have been sure of all of them."

"Well, I think we can be sure of this one," Annette said, her thumb beside the very first name on the list. Though his name was followed by a question mark, neither husband nor wife truly doubted that Henry VIII, King of England, was a member of the Knights Templar.

"Copy the names with question marks," Robert instructed as he opened the secret door to the Assassin chamber. His wife nodded and began reproducing the names on a separate sheet of paper. She finished just as her husband reemerged from his den, having swapped his relatively short black cloak for a longer, careworn gray one. His schiavona and its scabbard were also gone. "It's a bit dangerous to openly carry weapons right now," he explained upon seeing his wife's questioning looks.

"You're going to walk?" she asked somewhat incredulously.

"Just going for a drink with some friends by the Thames," Robert answered nonchalantly. Annette nodded her understanding and handed her husband the copy she'd made. He tucked it away in a small satchel attached to the back of his belt and headed out the door without another word.

At present the tavern was called The Knight House, though no true knight of England had ever set foot in it. It had once been called The Blue Hunter Alehouse, and before that the Bloody Banshee Tavern. Though its name had changed several times in the last two decades, the place itself was the same: a two-storey building on the waterfront of the River Thames, its unpainted windows weathered with age and the moist air. A poorly-painted sign hung over the chipped wooden door, and only one of the two lanterns burned in its brass holder. The clientele and proprietors had likewise remained the same collection of undeniably dangerous-looking men with knives at their belts throughout the many name changes. It was not a place frequented by the peaceful law-abiding sort of folk.

It was, however, frequented by the sort of folk who knew how to acquire things. Be it jewelry, silverware, weapons, or information, there was someone in The Knight House who could procure it. A single lamp lit each floor, and not very well; shadows ruled the corners of the room, and even the plain wooden tables near the center of light tended to be dim. Such a place was therefore a natural haunt of the Assassins.

No one looked up as the cloaked Ludlum entered the room. He looked around briefly before striding purposefully to the bar, his hood still raised. It didn't pay to reveal your face in a place like this, and he was far from the only customer who apparently believed so. He took a seat at the bar and crooked his finger to call the barman over. "Scotch whisky," he ordered, adding after a moment's consideration, "In a clean glass."

"Are you always so prim and proper with your drinks?"

Ludlum deigned to answer the dodgy-looking man who'd appeared at his side until the drink arrived and he had taken a sip. "What good is a fine Scotch if it's contaminated with the filth of tosspot pillocks like you?" Instead of throwing a punch, the black-bearded man laughed, the scars around his mouth stretching with the laugh lines.

"Well now, I suppose your happy band of murderers is known for its courtesy!" he exclaimed.

"Only about as well as you are for your pretty face," Ludlum returned calmly before nodding slightly in the man's direction. "Good evening, Barnes."

"And a jolly what ho to you too!" Hector Barnes was a large man, taller and broader than Ludlum and far thicker in the neck, chest, and arms. Though a pleasant drinking companion, he was a dangerous and ruthless enemy, as many who had faced him in his soldiering days had discovered. What Ludlum needed now, however, were not Barnes's skills as a warrior – skills Ludlum far exceeded, in any case – but his ability to gather information.

While he raised his glass to his lips for another drink, Ludlum's free hand took the list of names from the pouch at his back and handed it to Barnes without a word. The former soldier looked it over, eyebrows raised, while Ludlum finished his drink. Barnes finally exhaled slowly and placed the list on the bar, one gloved hand covering it. "Anything specific you're looking for?"

"No. Anything and everything you can discover. Where they go, what they do, with whom they speak. Leave the sorting of peculiarities to me."

Barnes nodded and slipped the paper somewhere into his leather vest. "Give me a fortnight." As always, Ludlum was pleased at the man's avoidance of awkward questions, which was what made him such an excellent ally. Ludlum nodded and slapped a coin on the surface of the bar to pay for his drink, then turned to leave.

"One last thing," Barnes called just before the Assassin reached the door. Ludlum stopped in his tracks, one hand already on the handle. "Will this little venture involve making people dead?" The Assassin simply turned his hooded face towards Barnes, his mouth grim. The look clearly asked, _What do you think? _Barnes only nodded – he'd expected nothing else. "Good hunting."


	4. Mengasah pedang anda

**Chapter Three: ****Mengasah ****pedang****anda**

The Red Rider stable was only one of the many establishments the London arm of the Assassin Order controlled, but it was certainly one of the most important. Benedict Alwin, the stable master, was among Robert Ludlum's most trusted friends, and with good reason; before a battle with Templar agents had deprived him of his right leg below the knee, he'd been one of the three Assassin Savants of the London Guild of Assassins, only one rank beneath Ludlum – the guild master – himself. Despite his disability, Alwin continued to serve the Assassins by training tough, dependable mounts for Ludlum and his agents to use on their many journeys out of London. The small size of the Guild meant its few agents were constantly travelling – at present and discounting Connelly's imminent departure, the Ludlums were the only active Assassins within the city. The others, including Robert's protégé Charles Watson, were spread about the English countryside gathering information on the movements and plans of their enemies. Such activity meant that strong horses were in constant demand, exceeded only by the call for men who could train them.

Even with one leg, Alwin was a magnificent trainer and rider, and it showed in the dependability of the animals he worked with. Alwin met Connelly at the door to the stables, the reins of a tall gray stallion held in one hand. The horse was already saddled, and a pair of leather bags slung across its back indicated the animal was ready for a long journey.

"How did you – "

"Assassins are fast," Alwin interrupted, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "but messenger pigeons are faster." Connelly stepped back to let the stable master lead the horse out of the building. Though his wooden leg _clunked_ against the flagstones, Alwin's disability was surprisingly imperceptible in the way he walked. The nighttime darkness and the dark red cape hanging from Benedict's right shoulder worked together to conceal the artificial leg, but the sound alone was enough to remind Connelly of the great warrior they'd lost. "He's well-rested," Alwin continued, "and there're enough provisions in there to get you to Sherwood, but you'll have to resupply before the return journey."

The priest nodded his thanks, placed one foot in the stirrup closest to him, and swung himself onto the horse's back. "Any word from Charles?" he asked as he brought the horse to face the road.

Alwin shook his head as Connelly's horse began trotting along. "Nary a peep. Don't worry about the boy, though," he assured Connelly, "he gets things done. I'm sure he's on his way back right now. In fact, you'll likely meet him on the road."

"Let's hope so," Connelly said as they arrived at the main highway. He clicked his tongue and the horse began to canter away.

"And James?" Alwin called. Connelly reined his horse to a stop and turned in the saddle. "Take care of that one. I'm hoping to sire some racers from him."

Connelly grinned; for a moment he'd thought Alwin had actually been about to show some concern for the rider over the horse. "I'll be careful," he promised his friend. He dug his heels into the horse's side and took off into the night.

* * *

All was quiet around Whitehall Palace.

Of course, Henry had no real reason to increase his guard, Robert Ludlum mused from where he was perched not far from the palace walls. Though he could not know that the Assassins didn't have the strength to mount an assault on the palace, the king certainly could be sure that he was safe for the moment. If anyone was in danger, it would be Cranmer, who was vulnerable so long as he was without Whitehall's considerable defenses.

The Assassin shifted his crouch slightly as he weighed his options. Even if it seemed possible to infiltrate and single-handedly eliminate the monarch, it wouldn't be as beneficial as it seemed. Ludlum very much doubted Henry was the mastermind despite his crown; Thomas Cromwell was probably behind it all, the snake. Furthermore, striking without identifying all their targets might cause some of the fish to escape the net. The Assassins couldn't move until they identified everyone involved in the conspiracy, or at least all the major players – despite their prodigious skills, they were too few in number to hunt refugees all over the Isles.

Ludlum pushed himself to his feet and stepped off the building he'd been settled on. He plummeted nearly four meters, but still managed to land softly in a crouch on the grass.

There was nothing more to be gained by observing Whitehall's guards. Ludlum knew he could penetrate the outermost defenses without much trouble – he was the highest-ranked Assassin in England for a reason – but to do so simply to scout the inner security was pointless. Still, he wasn't quite ready to let the night end with so little accomplished.

His eyes still focused on the patrolling guards, Robert reached into one of the pouches attached to his belt and withdrew a small parcel which he unwrapped to reveal a medium-sized apple. He raised the fruit to his mouth and took a bite as his eyes followed one particular guard near the edge of the palace grounds. The man's movements were slightly careless and almost sloppy – if needs be, there was at least one soldier who could be impersonated. As he continued to consume the apple, Ludlum's gaze wandered around the rest of the palace in case he saw a hole in the security he hadn't seen before.

There were many.

One of the myriad skills an Assassin had to master was identifying and exploiting sudden surges of luck. Circumstances were ever-changing, meaning adaptation was the key to success. Though scant minutes had passed since his last examination of the patrols, new possible avenues of attack had already appeared.

In the shadow of a tree, two guards had stopped to chat, leaving holes in the palace defenses as they did so.

Another sentry had stopped at one of the palace's corners to rub his eyes. The man likely had poor sleep patterns despite his nightly duty – that would certainly come in handy during an infiltration attempt.

The two sentinels by the massive wooden front door were not as alert as they should have been; no doubt the late hour was taking its toll on their internal clocks despite their training.

Ludlum finished chewing the last of the apple's flesh and threw the core into the grass beside him. It was enough to know that so many holes existed in the palace defenses; when the time came, he would make full use of them. After a final glance at the patrols, he turned and began the walk home.

He had not gone far when he heard the thunder of hooves. Ludlum quickly ducked into a side street, one of his engraved warknives already in his hand. He held it under his cloak to prevent any shine as four horsemen galloped past where he was concealed. Despite their speed and the dark, Ludlum saw that the lead rider held a bloodstained satchel. Call it intuition or what have you, but something told the Assassin this was somehow related to James Connelly's departure. He sheathed his blade, then stole out of the alley and down the street, careful to stay within the shadows.

"The king is asleep, you fool!" one of the gate guards was saying to the lead rider when Ludlum reached them. He hung back in the cloak of darkness, listening intently.

"If he wakes in the morning to discover that you kept something like this from him over so trivial a matter as his _bedtime_," the lead rider angrily retorted, waving the satchel about, "he will reward you with a short drop and a sudden stop! Now open these damned gates!"

"But the minister – "

It was at this point that, to Ludlum's amusement, the angry rider pulled a wheellock pistol from a leather sheath on his saddle, slammed the dog against his belt to cock the weapon, and pointed it between his challenger's eyes.

"You will open those gates or I will shoot you and open them myself," the rider declared. "Either way, I _will _see the king!" The other three riders drew and primed similar weapons, instinctively moving to support their commander despite the idiocy of the situation. The other gate guards had likewise come to their leader's support, halberds at the ready. Ludlum was beginning to hope they'd actually kill each other when the palace doors flew open and a troop of soldiers emerged, an angry-looking captain at their head.

"What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed. Though his sword remained in its scabbard, his men had their blades at the ready.

The leader of the riders lowered his pistol and raised the satchel. "Another of the king's messengers has been slain, and this _imbecile_," here he glared at the sentinel who'd refused to grant him admittance, "was preventing me from passing the news."

The captain took one look at the imbrued bag and commanded, "Open the gates!"

At that moment, Ludlum decided that delaying that news would be in the Order's best interests. He primed his twin Mockingbird Guns, then palmed a smoke bomb in each hand. The Assassin triggered the clockwork detonators and flung them at the horses' hooves as the gates ground open. The devices exploded almost as soon as they hit the ground, creating a blast of noise and a curtain of smoke. The horses panicked, almost throwing their riders off in their fright. Obviously they weren't battle-hardened warhorses capable of remaining calm amidst cannon fire. The horsemen discharged their guns by accident, hitting some of the sentries. Two more explosions sounded, and two of the riders toppled from their mounts, including the leader. The bloodstained satchel fell from his limp hand. Blinded by the dark cloud, the remaining men shouted in fear, but they could see and do nothing for fear of hurting their comrades.

It was what killed them.

The Assassin was among them in seconds, his vambrace blades unsheathed. Though he was just as visibly impaired by the black curtain, Ludlum didn't need to see his targets to kill them. His exceptional hearing, in addition to an almost preternatural memory and prediction of where his marks were, permitted him to strike them down even with his eyes closed. He leapt atop the closest horse with a soldier still mounted and slashed his blades across the back of the man's neck, severing his spinal cord. Ludlum pushed off the horse, flipping in midair above the last rider as he again sliced both blades through flesh. Both riders slumped in their saddles, dead or dying.

Ludlum landed next to one of the two remaining gate guards and delivered four quick blows. Before the perforated sentry had crumpled to the ground, the Assassin had danced away to ram a blade down through the last one's neck into his heart. As his boots touched the earth, Ludlum sheathed his blades and drew a pair of throwing knives with each hand.

The smoke had already begun to dissipate. Ludlum had only minutes to make his escape, if that much. The group of palace guards was coming forward, and by now even the captain had his sword out. Ludlum snapped his hands forward and let fly the knives, each of which buried itself in a soldier's chest. As the captain came forward, his sword raised and ready to come down on Ludlum's head, the Assassin darted closer and grabbed the pommel of the sword with one hand. The other clenched into a fist which he slammed into the soldier's face, loosening his grip on the weapon. Ludlum punched the man again, breaking his nose, then took the contested sword in both hands and wrenched it from the disoriented captain's grip, kicking out with his leg to create distance between them. Before his opponent had time to recover, the Assassin thrust the broadsword forward into a gap in the man's armor.

Time had almost run out. A battle at the gates of the royal palace could hardly go unnoticed for long, and a stream of soldiers had begun to pour out of Whitehall. Ludlum dove backwards, leaving the sword sticking out of the captain's chest. He kicked his feet over his head and flipped on his hands. As he landed upright, he pulled another pair of smoke bombs from his arsenal and threw them onto the ground beneath his feet. The oncoming reinforcements halted, their vision suddenly impaired. Some of them had guns, and these they fired into the black cloud.

It was to no avail; once the smoke had cleared, there was no cloaked corpse on the ground, only the bodies of his victims. Of the killer himself, there was no sign. The bloodstained satchel – the evidence that Henry's message had not gotten through – was also gone.

* * *

Dawn found Robert Ludlum asleep on a velvet couch in his study wearing a clean pair of trousers and a loose white shirt. In his tiredness he would have gladly slept until well past noon had his wife not intervened.

"Wake up, Robert," Annette commanded, gently slapping his cheek. Robert simply swatted her hand away and rolled over to bury his face in the cushions. Annette sighed, seized her husband's shoulder, and pulled him off the couch. He landed facedown on the floor, where he remained motionless for a moment.

"That was unnecessary," he commented as he pushed himself to his feet. For a man who had supposedly just been awakened, he was remarkably lucid.

"No, but it was fun," Annette laughed. "I've brought you breakfast."

"So you have," Robert agreed with a glance at the tray a servant had placed on his desk. "One moment." He walked to the nearest bookcase and jumped up to grab a bar installed above it – it was ostensibly meant to hold the scarlet curtains that could be drawn to cover the books, but the iron pole had another purpose. Robert pulled himself up until his chin was above the pole, his body held straight throughout the motion, then slowly lowered himself until his arms were straight. Multiple repetitions of the movement provided an excellent exercise for all the climbing he did. His wife simply sighed and sat on the recently-vacated couch, an amused look on her face. Robert finished forty repetitions before dropping to the floor and finally approaching his breakfast.

"You could afford one day without tiring yourself before breakfast," Annette remarked, still relaxing on the couch.

Robert took a bite out of a honey cake before answering, "I will rest when the Templar surrender."

Annette laughed and stood up. She walked to her husband and put her hands on his shoulders. "Such passion for killing," she said as she began to massage the stiffness out. "Little wonder _Il Mentore _saw fit to make you Guild Master."

"It's not a passion for _killing_," Robert corrected her as he finished off the cake and reached for the mug of fruit nectar. "It's a passion for doing my duty. The Templar are my enemies and I shall fight them to the best of my abilities, but I take no pleasure in their deaths." He paused to take a deep swig of the drink, then wiped his mouth before continuing, "The Mentor made me Guild Master because I am a soldier at heart – no more, no less."

"Oh darling, don't be so defensive," Annette chuckled as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "You know I'm only teasing you." Robert only smiled and drained the mug.

"Pay a visit to Anne," he instructed as he refilled the mug from the decanter on the tray. "Tell her to be on her guard around Henry, but be careul; if he truly is a Templar and she hasn't informed us by now, either he's better at this game than we thought or she isn't completely – "

"Anne is loyal," Annette interrupted. "We can trust her."

Robert nodded and drank from his mug. "Still, be careful," he said. "Who hears you is as important as what is heard."

"As you wish, then, oh Master of Assassins," Annette teased with a curtsy. "And what shall _you _be doing this fine day?"

"First, I shall finish my breakfast."

The bluntness of so light a statement in so serious a conversation forced Annette to laugh as she made for the exit of the room. She paused in the doorway to ask, "And after that, my love?"

Robert finished chewing the hunk of roast venison in his mouth before answering, "Training."

* * *

Urshall, the manor that had now served three generations of the Ludlum name, stood where it did for a special reason: beneath the foundations lay a large cavern into which nearly the entirety of Urshall could have fit. Two centuries of hard work had transformed it from a simple grotto to a magnificent burial chamber that also served as arguably the greatest training ground of the Assassin Order. Robert's father – one of the many whose final resting place was a sealed fissure in the walls of the cavern – had called it the Grotto of Angels. Considering the cavern's dual purpose as graveyard and gymnasium, it was an odd name, but not altogether inappropriate; the Assassins did sometimes call themselves angels of death and fate.

Robert Ludlum, now clad in boots, breeches, and a leather vest over his shirt, paused as he always did, at the entrance to the Grotto. He ran one hand over the words engraved in the stone doorway: _Aegroto, dum anima est, spes esse dicitur. _"It is said, for a sick man," he recited quietly, forefinger tracing the letters, "there is hope as long as there is life." It was a saying the Order clung to in its most desperate hours – fitting words to be read every time one wished to enter the Grotto. Ludlum sighed and proceeded to enter the cavern.

He stood on a balcony overlooking the entirety of the Grotto. Though underground, the cave was lit by an ingenious series of mirrors that reflected light from the outside – a trick the Grotto's architects had learned from the ancient Egyptians. During the night – or days when the sun was less than cooperative – large lanterns were ensconced in the walls that, coupled with the mirrors, could provide roughly the same effect.

The sound of fighting reached the Arch-Assassin where he stood, and he looked down to see two people sparring far below on the sandy floor of the chamber. He had a good idea of who the combatants were and was actually glad for their presence; it meant he'd be able to practice his own combat skills as well as his acrobatics.

There was a staircase cut into the stone that descended to the very bottom, but Ludlum rarely used it, and today was to be no exception. Aided by some construction, the nature of the cavern made it an excellent place to practice the feats of agility all Assassins eventually had to use.

Ludlum took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he took a step back. He exhaled, opened his eyes, and ran forward to leap off the balcony into the air. At the height of his jump he caught onto a stalactite and shimmied along a groove in it until his back was to a small ledge to the left of and slightly below his starting point. Ludlum braced his feet against the rock and kicked off hard, backflipping to land squarely on the protrusion. He stepped off the ledge and turned in midair to grab it, then pushed off hard, twisting and somersaulting in midair to land on another outcropping. Ludlum rolled to keep his momentum and leapt towards the wall. He took three horizontal steps on the rock before springing off to drop onto one of the winding staircase's landings.

By now he was almost at the bottom. As he paused to take a breath, Robert surveyed the scene below him. His guess as to the identities of the sparring parters was correct, though there honestly wasn't much choice. There were less than twenty members of the London Guild of Assassins altogether, even including the forcibly-retired Ben Alwin.

Some twelve feet below him, the Bourdet brothers exchanged rapid strikes and thrusts with wooden training weapons. Arthur and Adrian held the rank of Adherent, three levels away from receiving the pure white cloak of a Knight-Assassin. Though they had much to learn in the admittedly difficult art of silent death-dealing, there was no denying their exceptional swordsmanship. As Ludlum looked on, one of the brothers – they were identical twins, difficult to tell apart in so chaotic a situation as combat drills – parried his sibling's cut before stepping into and to the side of the attack, rendering the attacking weapon impotent. The aggressor released the counterfeit sword and fell back just enough to grab his brother's weapon by the pommel, his other hand coming down on the wrist with a chopping motion. The disarmed was now the disarmer, his stolen weapon flipped into a reverse grip. The now-weaponless Bourdet dropped backward from a swipe at chest level, rolling over his shoulder and picking up the abandoned training sword. He brought it up in time to knock aside a downward swipe, then used the momentum to spin on his heel with the intention of kicking his brother's feet out from under him. The standing Bourdet had anticipated this; he skipped and side-somersaulted over his almost-supine opponent, again changing his sword grip as he did so. As he landed he turned and brought his weapon down hard, but missed; the other Bourdet had sprung to his feet just in time, twisting to mount an attack of his own.

As with many battles, this sparring contest was won by a combination of luck and an all-or-nothing gamble: the attacking Bourdet slipped in the sand coating the Grotto's floor, but tried to use his impetus to strike up at his brother. The standing Bourdet decided to try and end the fight by slapping aside the sword and striking down with his own, but discovered too late that it was a spur-of-the-moment feint when his sibling used his free hand to seize his leg and trip him. The same motion that brought one Bourdet down was used by the other to pull himself up. Their positions reversed, the now-standing brother kicked his opponent's weapon out of his hand and placed his own sword against his brother's neck.

Robert Ludlum clapped his hands in appreciation of the victory. Both brothers started at the sound and looked up; the intensity of their bout had apparently kept them oblivious to the Arch-Assassin's presence. The brother on the ground quickly got to his feet, and in unison they bowed their heads and brought their left hands across their chests, ring finger pulled back in the identifying salute of the Assassins. The gesture was a reminder of the days when Assassins proved their dedication by having that finger removed. Aside from the symbolic significance, such mutilation also allowed the hidden blade to be unsheathed and used even with a clenched fist. The legendary Grand Master Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had discontinued the practice to make recognition of Assassins more difficult. He had modified the blade'd design to allow its utilization without necessitating the removal of the user's finger.

Ludlum returned the salute, then vaulted over the guard rail of the landing and dropped the twelve feet to the ground, coming down in a crouch. By the time he had gotten to his feet, the brothers were dusting themselves off, and the disarmed one was retrieving his weapon. Ludlum watched as this Bourdet bent down and reached out his left hand to pick up the traning sword. This was Adrian then, which made the winner Arthur. The two were of exactly the same height and build, and shared the same brown hair and gray eyes. Even laterality wasn't a defining feature; both were ambidextrous, able to perform equally well with either hand.

"No lives to take today, Master?" Adrian inquired as he and his brother returned the training swords to a rack by the wall. Ludlum smiled and shook his head as he took a short faux-dagger from another of the weapon racks.

"Don't put those away just yet," he commanded. The Bourdets stopped in their tracks, then brought the training swords back to ready positions as the Arch-Assassin continued, "That is, if you don't mind helping me keep my skills sharp."

"Not at all, Master," the brothers replied in unison. They were smart enough to question neither his choice of armament nor his decision to take on two trained bladesmen at once.

Robert walked to the center of the chamber, weapon held low in his right hand. The Bourdets took up positions on opposite sides of him as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Whenever you're ready."

* * *

"You are telling me my husband cannot be trusted."

Despite the light tone with which the sentence was spoken, Annette Ludlum could not help but detect a hint of resentment. The sunny courtyard seemed an odd place to be discussing so serious a topic as the King's dark secrets – secrets that could condemn either of the women to death.

"I don't mean to question your judgment, but – " she began, only to be quickly cut off when the young Queen Consort waved her hand and laughed.

"We speak of a man who has, in essence, made it punishable by death to disagree with him on so little as the time of day," Anne told her friend. "I haven't trusted him from the moment I met him."

"I never understood what made you accept his marriage proposal," Annette stated as the pair stopped in the shade of an ash tree. Anne's bodyguard stood a small distance back, arms crossed over his breastplate. It would have been un-gentlemanly of him to attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation of two friends, but neither woman was in doubt as to his loyalty to the king. Thus far their talk had been in generalities and vague statements; they could not afford to be captured, and not just for their own sakes.

Anne laughed again and said, "Who in their right mind would turn down the king? And I must admit, I _was _flattered by his advances." Annette sighed, shaking her head at her friend's vanity. It was no surprise Henry had noticed her; her dark eyes and lush hair worked with her tan complexion to create a face rarely enough seen at court. She was blessed with a statuesque figure and stood slightly taller than Annette, who was of above average height herself. Anne was also remarkably charming when she wanted to be; she sang well, spoke French beautifully, and possessed a sharp wit. Beneath all this was a cunning intellect, and this was likely what had ultimately gotten Anne into her current position. "Besides," Anne continued, "I seem to recall you being one of the supporters of this relationship."

"_My husband _supported this relationship," Annette countered. "_I _thought it a dangerous venture _at best_."

"You could have spoken against him."

"It's hardly a wife's place to oppose her husband. Men would learn nothing if women cleaned up all their mistakes."

Anne chuckled at the joke, but quickly reverted to a serious tone. "It _was _a good idea, Annette."

"I can't deny it's put you in a most advantageous position, especially with your place in the Peerage," Annette returned, referring to the new title of Marquess of Pembroke Henry had bestowed upon Anne, "but it's a very dangerous game you're playing. I'm worried for you."

Anne smoothed the skirts of her red dress and leaned against the tree. Her face took on a wistful expression as she admitted, "It would be a lie if I said I've never woken up afraid for my life." She sighed and watched a kestrel soar through the blue sky. "But I can't turn back now, Annette. No one refuses the king."

Annette placed a reassuring hand on her friend's shoulder. "Don't forget your friends, Anne. We're here if you need us." The Queen Consort did not reply. She simply took her friend's hand in her own and squeezed.

* * *

Adrian moved first, coming in from Robert's left with a high slash aimed at the Arch-Assassin's head. Almost simultaneously, Arthur sprang forward, his weapon sweeping low. Robert whirled beneath Adrian's strike, using the movement to whip himself over Arthur's attack. The brothers continued to spin, bringing their swords around for another synchronized assault. Robert fell away from this offensive, twisting closer to Arthur as he did so. His mock dagger flashed towards Arthur's neck, but the Adherent managed to get his forearm up in time to intercept Robert's weapon arm at the wrist. Adrian swung at Robert's back, but again the Arch-Assassin spun away.

"You're getting faster," Robert commented as he backpedalled to gain distance. The twins only nodded in acknowledgement before resuming their offensive. They unleashed a series of rapid blows which Robert parried using his weapon and even his hands to slap aside the attacking swords. He was driven backwards to the cavern wall, and Adrian let himself grin; it seemed as if even the best Assassin in the Guild was prone to mistakes.

The Bourdets simultaneously swung their weapons high and low, hoping to end the bout. They were surprised when Robert twisted and jumped, kicking off the rock wall to dive between their swords.

Robert rolled as he hit the ground, spinning on his foot to land a kick on Adrian's thigh. Adrian buckled as Arthur tried to get around for another attack. This was stopped by the Guild Master's weapon, followed by another kick, this one to Arthur's sword arm. Before the wooden training weapon had hit the ground, Robert had wrested Adrian's weapon away as well, leaving both brothers disarmed. A second later the sparring match ended when each Bourdet found a wooden blade pressed to his neck.

"Never press your opponent against a wall," Robert instructed before pulling the weapons away. His breathing rate was only slightly elevated as he returned to the center of the cavern floor, tossing Adrian's stolen training weapon back to him. "It limits your avenues of attack, gives him less to worry about. And an animal fights hardest when it is cornered." The brothers walked back to their starting positions, flexing their took another deep breath, relaxing himself. This time he tossed his mock-dagger away.

"Again," he commanded.


	5. La mente de un guerrero

**Chapter Four: ****La mente****de un guerrero**

Even a horse as tough as those trained by Benedict Alwin had to rest every now and then. James Connelly had pulled off the road and tied the horse to a tree. He left it to graze and rest while he went to a nearby brook to drink and refill his water skins. He pulled back his hood as he knelt, drinking deeply from the cool, clear water. Except for the weapons the Assassin was festooned with, it was a remarkably poignant scene.

Connelly apparently thought so too, for he warned the man coming up behind him, "Don't do it, lad. I can't promise I won't throw a knife at ye out of habit."

Charles Watson laughed and tossed away the twig he'd been about to snap. "Nothing gets past you, does it, Lord Connelly?"

"I told you not to call me 'Lord'," Connelly said as he continued to wash his face.

"Apologies. Force of habit."

It was probably true. When Robert Ludlum – then a freshly inducted Assassin operating out of the Order's headquarters in Rome – had picked young Charles off the street, he was the last member of a family of servants. Their lord had been slain in a battle overseas, and the Watsons had found themselves without a home when lesser clans fought over the remnants of their liege's possessions. In an act of spite, a young nobleman had finally burned down the manor the Watsons had continued to care for. The servants had fled while looters began attempting to sack the burning house. A then-ten-year-old Charles had been outside the estate's walls, kneeling and crying over his father's dead body and crying when a hooded figure stopped in front of him and extended a gloved hand.

Nearly twenty years later, Charles bore little resemblance to the skinny orphan Robert Ludlum had saved from the streets. He was massive, noticeably taller than Robert Ludlum and Connelly himself – neither of whom were short men – and muscular; years of training had sculpted him into an imposing physical specimen capable of Herculean feats of power. He was also far more agile than anyone would think a man of his size could be. His timidity was long gone; Charles Watson was now a brutal killer who would not hesitate to strike a fatal blow.

Still, old habits did not die easily. Charles still tended to call his superiors in the Order 'Lord', no matter how many times he was reminded not to do so. It was not the only souvenir of his harsh childhood; despite his normally calm demeanor, there was always a hint of bleak despair in the corner of Charles' eye – this alone had not changed in almost two decades.

Charles threw back the hood of his grey traveling cloak as he knelt beside Connelly by the stream. "Forgive me, but I'm surprised I caught up with you so easily," Charles told the senior Assassin. "Master Alwin said you'd left hours before I arrived."

"You must have ridden hard, then. I've been in no hurry."

Charles chuckled as he splashed some of the water on his face. "Well, at least I won't be riding alone any more. The road has a tendency to grow lonely."

He brushed stray locks of wavy brown hair out of his face as he stood and threw his cloak back over his shoulder. Underneath it he wore his full Assassin garb; red-trimmed white robes disguised mail-backed leather armor, all secured by a broad black belt to which were fastened a broadsword and an assortment of throwing knives. Plate vambraces and greaves protected his forearms and shins, while a lamé pauldron guarded each of his shoulders. A harness strapped to his thigh held a thick single-edged fighting knife, a smaller version of which sat in a small sheath in Charles' right greave. The shoulderguards concealed a pair of curved daggers with holes for the wielders' fingers, which made it difficult to disarm him – excellent back-up weapons for such a man.

Charles Watson was not one who could be easily caught unprepared.

The pair finished filling their waterskins and headed back to where Connelly had left his horse. He noted that Charles had tied his mount to the same tree; obviously the younger man hadn't had to search very hard. As each man adjusted the gear of his steed, Connelly saw that the tip of Charles' custom-built, spring-loaded crossbow protruded from a saddlebag.

"Any particular reason you've decided to hide that thing?" he asked Charles, nodding at the concealed crossbow.

"People tend to ask awkward questions about it when it's in the open," Charles answered without having to look at what Connelly was indicating.

Charles' crossbow normally rested in a specially-built leather case on his back. The basic weapon was a simple metal frame with one tight string, meant simply to provide a means of ranged combat. As his mechanical skills had improved, Charles had added many things to the device, among them an ingenious system that allowed the crossbow to hold two bolts at a time, one ready to fire and one in reserve. He had also reworked the firing mechanism to be extremely difficult to accidentally set off. Perhaps the most obvious modification was the installment of four spring-loaded prongs to replace the original simple recurve bow; even without the added strings along the length of the body, these four would have provided incredible strength to each shot. The crossbow was far more accurate than the Mockingbird Gun, and its greater weight and difficulty in concealment were offset by its near-silent firing mechanism. Charles called it the Whisperer, and was rightly proud of it; it was certainly a peerless weapon.

Still, hiding it was probably a smart choice; though small enough to be fired with one hand, its unusual construction tended to draw attention even from those used to seeing it.

Connelly put one foot in the left stirrup and swung himself over and onto the saddle. "Let's be off," he told the younger man. "We've still quite a ways to go."

"So much riding," Charles sighed jokingly. "Sometimes I feel like it would be nice to be thought less of. Spend more time in London."

Connelly laughed. "Lad, there'll come a day when you wish you could go out and fight the world like you used to."

"Is that what's happened to you?"

"Not quite yet."

"Is that what's happened to Lord Ludlum?"

"Lad, if anything, Robert Ludlum is a far greater Assassin now than he was when he first picked you off the street. Mind of a warrior, that one."

At least the road to Sherwood would no longer be a quiet one.

* * *

"Henry must know by now that we intercepted another of his messengers," Robert Ludlum commented as he scanned John Fisher's list of Templar. "He shouldn't need Cromwell to tell him we're aware of his movements."

"We're still not sure exactly what it is Henry is after, though," Annette reminded him. "What we know is simply not enough."

"Couldn't we just kill him and pick up the pieces after?"

This came from Arthur Bourdet, who sat on the couch whetting his dagger on an iron rod. The four Assassins – Adrian had naturally come with his brother – were in Robert Ludlum's study trying to plan their next move. They had to be very careful now that their enemies were alert; even in a game of chess, one poor move could cost the victory, and the age-old war with the Templar was hardly as equal as a chessboard.

Annette shook her head, though a slight smile showed she amused by the Adherent's simplicity of thought. "We can't risk the others scattering about the isles. They could reform with more power, and be even more dangerous than they are now. We'll have to use our heads."

"You'll have to pardon Arthur," Adrian said from the corner where he stood sipping from a goblet. "Thinking has never been his area of expertise."

Two things happened in rapid succession: Arthur whipped his dagger towards Adrian, intending to knock the chalice from his brother's hand, but Robert Ludlum's own blade intercepted the missile in midair. Ludlum's dagger thudded into the bookcase, Adrian's clattering onto one of the shelves.

"Your skills are definitely improving," Robert remarked, "but your temper and speed need work."

"Apologies, Master," Arthur said with a slight bow. He stood and retrieved the knives as Adrian sipped his drink. "I'll be faster next time."

"Now," Robert continued, "I know you two have just returned from Ireland – and made good time doing so, I might add – but I've some tasks that need doing."

"We stand ready, Master," the twins chorused. Robert nodded, looking back down at his papers.

"I need someone to keep an eye on Whitehall. If Henry sends more couriers, I want to know where they go. If they leave the city, I _especially _want to know."

"I'll handle Whitehall," Arthur volunteered. "A little owl-work will be welcome after fighting Fitzgerald mercenaries and hiding in the countryside for a month. I told you pretending to be emissaries of the king was a bad idea." This last was directed to Adrian, who laughed.

"It was _your _idea, brother," he reminded Arthur before turning to the Guild Master. "What else needs doing?"

"Go to the Tower of London," Ludlum instructed. "Find out what you can about Fisher's imprisonment. What they plan to do with him, when they plan to do it. Report whatever you find by the end of the week. If they intend to execute him, inform me _immediately_."

"Yes master."

"And no killing."

Adrian paused. "Unless necessary?"

"You're not a very good judge of what is 'necessary', brother," Arthur reminded him.

"If you're referring to that incident in Malahide," Adrian retorted, "_you _were the one who aled up and called his wife an arseface, so – "

"If I have to knock your heads together to shut you up, so help me I shall," Annette interrupted, the seriousness of the threat somewhat undermined by the half-smile on her face – though the brothers knew she would happily carry through on it.

"Get going, both of you," Robert commanded. "And be careful. Henry has enough reason to be on his guard; if he has half as intelligent as he should be, he'll have raised the guard around both Whitehall and the Tower."

"It shan't be a problem, master," Arthur promised as the twins rose to leave. "We'll try to avoid any complications. At least, _I _will." Adrian was about to snap something at his brother, but thought better of it and held his tongue as the pair bowed and left the room.

"There's something of the fool in both of them," Annette commented, "but there's potential there, don't you think?"

"If I saw no potential in them, I would not entrust them with missions more challenging than a trip to the baker," her husband replied. "Have you learned anything else from the letters?"

"Not as much as I'd like, but there's still a lot to decode." Annette pulled a sheet from the bottom of the pile. "This one might interest you, though," she said as she handed it to her husband. "I just finished transcribing it. It's a letter from Henry to Anne's father." That caught Robert's interest. It was a short letter; Annette's elegant handwriting only took up half the page. Robert quickly skimmed it once, then reread it more deliberately.

"I don't like it," he said, shaking his head.

"Alert the heralds," Annette joked. "You sounded like James just then."

"Well, _someone _has to represent him," Robert shrugged. "Two questions. One, what does Henry have to gain by making Anne's brother Lord Warden?"

The office of Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports was one of the highest positions it was in the King's power to bestow. Its holder essentially controlled a confederation of five ports located on the eastern end of the English Channel as well as their affiliated towns. Though the ports themselves were of decreasing importance, the Lord Warden's authority was still impressive; within his rather broad jurisdiction, he could muster troops, arrest criminals, and put a stranglehold on trade with the continent if he so chose. It was not a post given to someone the king did not feel he could trust.

Though George Boleyn was undoubtedly a brilliant, diligent man and the king's brother-in-law, his appointment to the post still seemed unprecedented and somewhat suspicious. His name was not on the list Fisher had created, even as a possible conspirator. Could the old man have missed something? Whatever the cause, it certainly merited further investigation.

"Two," Robert continued, counting on his fingers, "why has he written an encrypted message to Thomas Boleyn about it?" He set his hands on the table. "Is there something we don't know about Anne's family? Do they have Templar ties?"

Annette shook her head. "Impossible. Not without any of us knowing about it. I should think Anne's loyalty is without doubt, given how long she's helped us. And her father…no, he hasn't the right mind for it."

"George could be working independent of his family. If he's a Templar, it would explain all the work the king's had him do."Since 1529, George had served as the king's envoy to France and Rome on multiple occasions. He was barely thirty years old, and yet he was one of Henry's most trusted men – and apparently he was also about to be made one of the most powerful men in the realm. Anne's position no doubt had some influence on his rapid rise to fame, and he was certainly a capable enough man – but there had to be something the Assassins were unaware of.

None of them liked realizing they were in the dark about something, least of all Annette. She seemed to take it as a personal insult.

"I think I need to pay the queen consort another visit," she said.

* * *

Unfortunately, Anne had nothing in the way of shedding light on her brother's sudden promotion. She agreed that his diplomatic skills were hardly a valid basis for so high a position, but could offer no other _legitimate_ reason. "Of course," Anne said as Annette took a sip of wine, "Henry _has _been writing plenty of letters of late. Perhaps I should take a look at them."

"We don't want you getting into trouble," Annette cautioned as she set down her goblet. "Don't do anything that could endanger you. Or Liz," she added when she saw where the Queen was looking. The pair were in one of Whitehall's upper rooms, one beautifull y lit by the midday sun. They sat at a low table by one of the windows, a decanter of wine between them. Anne's bodyguard stood just outside the door, but the thick wood meant he could not overhear a calm conversation. The room's other occupant slept in a corner beyond the pools of sunlight, and it was to her that Anne's gaze was directed.

The young Princess Elizabeth slumbered peacefully in her ornate crib, unaware that the fate of a kingdom – perhaps the world, even – was being discussed in the same room. Henry's desire for a male heir meant he showed less affection for Elizabeth than most parents would, but Anne absolutely loved her little girl. Though lovely and charming, Anne had few personal friends to keep her company while her husband was busy with affairs of state. She was not in frequent contact with her siblings, which meant Anne had plenty of time to lavish attention upon the infant princess. Elizabeth's safety naturally meant far more to Anne than her own.

It was both blessing and curse; though it made Anne far more willing to do anything that would somehow protect her daughter, it also meant she tended to neglect her own wellbeing. Annette adored the child, but she and Anne had been close friends for a very long time.

"I want my daughter to grow up free to live her own life," Anne declared calmly. "If that means I must violate my husband's confidentiality, I shall. As far as I am concerned, it is a small price to pay."

"You're gambling with your life here, Anne," her friend warned.

"You and Robert do the same almost every day," the Queen reminded Annette. "I would be ashamed if I did not at least try to equal your dedication to our cause."

Though she knew it would change nothing, Annette decided to make one last effort to instill a greater sense of self-preservation in her friend: "Elizabeth needs her mother, Anne."

For a moment at least, it gave pause to the Queen; a shadow of doubt flickered across her ebony eyes.. However, she quickly regained her composure. "All wars present great risk to those who fight them. Warriors fight. Soldiers die. Whichever one I am, one day, whether or not I am there to see it, she will understand what her mother fought for."

At that moment, Annette wanted to throw her arms around her friend and tell her how much she admired her courage. Instead she nodded silently and turned her gaze back on the slumbering girl for whose future both women were prepared to lay down their lives, and much more.

* * *

"So what's the plan for Cranmer?"

"For now, the same as always," Connelly replied as the horses trotted on. "First, we learn what there is to learn." For a target as significant as Thomas Cranmer, the Assassins could not simply mount an assault and hope for the best. Their prodigious skills were best used in the execution of a well-laid plan. "We'll have to rush things somewhat, though; four hours, no more." Charles nodded in agreement; the longer they took preparing for their assault on Cranmer's undoubtedly-guarded residence, the more time Henry had to send reinforcements. For all they knew, a force of soldiers was already en route. Cranmer would be well guarded enough without the king's men; if the two Assasins couldn't penetrate the defenses within a day, their window of opportunity would slam shut.

"Have we any safehouses in Sherwood?" Charles asked.

Connelly shook his head. "No, but the local inns are run by people who know better than to ask questions of new arrivals. In any case, we shan't be long."

"Too rapid a departure may invite suspicion."

It was a good point. However quietly executed, Cranmer's murder could not possibly go unnoticed for very long – he was one of the most important men in the Isles, after all. Matters would be worsened by the arrival of Henry's troops, and an investigation would no doubt be immediately launched. Though there would be no names to go by, the townsfolk might let slip that two strangers arrived shortly before the killing, and left not long after. It would be very bad for the Order if Watson and Connelly were intercepted and captured or killed on the road back to London. Neither man was afraid of death, but they knew their worth to the fledgling London Guild. Charles Watson, in particular, would very likely become Guild Master when the current three Master Assassins stepped down.

"We stay for one night, then," Connelly amended. "When we leave, we take a road away from London; it'll look like we're on a longer journey, and we just stopped for provisions."

"It might help if we bought some ale or some other liquor," Charles added. When Connelly cocked an eyebrow at him, he explained, "Well, it may seem a bit odd if a Scotsman stops for the night and _doesn't_ leave with a barrel of whisky."

"I don't know whether to smack you or laugh," Connelly muttered, though a corner of his mouth twitched as though repressing a grin. Charles snickered and took a swig from one of his waterskins. Glass bottles held more and didn't leave an odd taste, but were easily broken and impractical for the Assassin Order's long, and often eventful, journeys.

"Are we looking for anything in particular?" Charles queried as he wiped his mouth. "Aside from Cranmer, I mean. Letters, books, signet rings, a codex of some sort?"

"Not this time. All we need is a way in. The Bishop's the only target."

"A simple blood job, then. Nice change of pace."

"Too much excitement up north?"

"Bloodthirsty gits, the lot of them," Charles grunted, presumably referring to the Catholic insurgents he'd been sent to contact. Clearly things hadn't gone too well.

"They weren't up for a listen, were they?" Connelly guessed, knowing Alan Cullen's reputation as a stubborn, single-minded blowhard. He and his band of dissenters were hardly the ideal allies, but they were the most accessible group and possibly the most likely to side with the Assassins against the king.

"Actually, things were going quite well," Charles said, then added, "until that stupid Cullen had one ale too many and picked a fight with some off-duty guardsmen."

"Ach. How was the mess?"

"Not too bad, but I would very much like to not have to deal with those damn drunkards again for a few months." He shook his head, then changed the topic. "What's Cranmer done to put himself on Master Ludlum's shite list?"

Connelly related the king's plan to use Cranmer to strengthen his grip over England, then added, "Besides which he's a boring dunderheid at the lectern. If I have to listen to one more of his sermons, I'll happily blow his brain out where he stands." Charles roared with laughter as they continued on their way.


	6. Fate e do askush nuk

**Chapter Five: Fate e do askush nuk**

It was Charles Watson who selected the inn that would be their temporary base of operations in Nottingham. Though Connelly had his own opinions and choices, he wanted to test the younger Assassin's instincts.

Charles didn't disappoint.

The lodge was a two-storey building with a basement pub. It didn't have a sign with its name hanging over the door, but it was far enough from seedy that the pair wouldn't have to worry about untimely law enforcement officers barging in. They could not discount the possibility of off-duty soldiers, but those were far from difficult to handle.

Connelly had sent Charles to see to the horses in the stable while he himself inspected both their room and the corridor leading to it. The room itself was just large enough for two beds, an armchair, and a small table. A window set in the wall between the beds provided both light and an easy escape should the need arise. Connelly walked around the room knocking on the walls, pleased to find that while far from soundproof, they were thick enough to prevent eavesdropping on low-voiced conversations.

Once he was satisfied with the room's security, Connelly began an examination of the first floor's main hall. The bare wooden floor creaked a bit, but Connelly could tread silently with a little effort. A less careful man would be easily heard – that was good enough for the Assassin. Connelly paced up and down the hall, ears open to the sounds coming from behind the closed doors that lined the passage. Most of the rooms were empty, but some emitted the snores of drunken sleepers.

One door, however, caught his attention: from behind it came the sound of someone sharpening a blade.

Acting on impulse, Connelly drew a fighting knife from a sheath at his back. His instincts were screaming at him to barge in and slaughter whoever it was – surely someone who spent his spare time caring for his weapons would prove a danger to the mission. He had precious little to go on, but something told him the room's occupant would eventually prove troublesome, and James Connelly was rarely wrong about these things.

In the end, however, the Assassin returned the blade to its glove. Even assuming he could silently kill whoever was on the other side of the door, Connelly could not risk the corpse being discovered. It would cast far too much suspicion on the newcomers, which would make their task much more difficult.

A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts. "News, Master Connelly," Charles declared as he reached the top of the stairs. "And you might want to have a drink at hand."

* * *

"Something's spooked the Bishop; he's leaving town soon after nightfall this very evening."

Connelly took a swig of ale before he asked, "And where'd you chance upon this bit of information?"

"Luck. He has some of his men preparing the way he's going to take. They're trying to be discreet about it, but their standards of discretion and secrecy are far beneath our own."

The pub was less than crowded, but the din from its other occupants easily masked the conversation of the two Assassins where they sat in one of the corners. The noise was no trouble; both of them had developed the skill of picking out a single voice in a crowd without much effort.

Connelly thought quietly, then said, "This could work to our advantage. Cranmer will be vulnerable during the preparations for his departure, especially if he's not planning on taking the main road." The priest took a swig of his drink and wiped his mouth. "See if you can trace out the exact route they're planning. Turns, shortcuts, number of guards and where."

"You're planning on chasing him down?"

"No, I'm planning on _you _chasing him down if he gets away from me. Hopefully it won't come to that." Connelly finished his drink. "I'll probe the castle's defenses for a way in. Return here in two hours. We'll make our final preparations and strike at dusk."

Charles nodded and drank the last of his ale. Before he could stand and leave, Connelly commanded, "Leave your cloak, lad."

The younger Assassin paused. "Master?"

Connelly laughed. "Has Robert taught you nothing about hiding, boy?"

"He's taught me." There was a hint of resentment in Charles's voice. "He's taught me how to blend, how to – "

"Listen carefully, lad. On a scouting mission like this, it's best to change as much as you can, as little as you can." The other man's silence indicated a lack of comprehension. Connelly shook his head with a smile. "Most people don't see the little details," he explained. "The color of a cloak, the make of a suit of armor – these are what most will remember. They might – _might _– recall the look of a sword if it's drawn, and the heraldry on a shield if one is present. What they _won't _notice are the truly unique details – a man's height, his walk, how off-center his belt buckle is. Changing the greater particulars is the best way to hide."

Charles sat quietly for a moment, then stood and unhooked the clasp of his cloak. He headed for the stairs, presumably to deposit the garment in their room.

Connelly remained at the table, absently swirling the last few drops of whisky left in his glass with one hand as he ran the fingers of the other over his sheathed hidden blade. Finally he tipped the last dregs of liquor into his mouth and stood as well, leaving some coins to pay for the drinks.

Connelly chose to walk to Nottingham Castle, the temporary residence of Archbishop Cranmer. Though the Bishop had family close by, the castle was a far safer base for whatever mission the king had given. The Assassin had left his cloak back at the inn, his sword and a pair of throwing knives his only visible weapons. This far from London, an armed man wasn't worth noting. There was no danger in his face being exposed; when he and Charles attacked, their features would be hidden under their hoods.

The streets were surprisingly empty, given that the sun still sat high in the sky. A few merchants still had their shops open, and they had their share, however small, of customers. Farther down the road, a patrol of three armed guards – two with halberds, the third with only a sword – had stopped for a drink with two bystanders outside a house. The soldiers were relaxed in a manner that said they were quite used to being so. Though they wore the king's livery rather than the colors of Sherwood's guard, they were clearly far beneath the standard of London's soldiers. If they were indicative of the protection Cranmer had, the night's work would be even easier than Connelly initially expected. Even the swordsman, who wore the trappings of an officer, was no fine physical specimen.

The Assassin kept his gaze from lingering on any one sight for more than a moment, though he walked with purpose. His demeanor was that of a man who knew where he was going, but was in no rush to arrive. Throughout the years it had served him well, keeping the vagrants away while preventing any unwanted attention. To reinforce the image of a casual yet destined walker, Connelly stopped at a fruit stand to purchase a bunch of grapes. He plucked the fruit from their stems and ate them one by one as he walked.

The area around Nottingham Castle was lightly peopled, but Connelly still wasn't the only armed man in sight who wasn't a soldier. Two men bearing broadswords stood to one side of the broad square in front of the stronghold, likely passing mercenaries or locals who didn't trust the neighborhood guard to protect them.

There was no need for them to know that as far as protection went, there was no town guardsman alive who could safeguard them from _everything_.

Connelly walked slowly but purposefully around the castle, as close to it as he could. The stone fortress certainly lookedformidable; heavily armed guardsmen patrolled the walls and edges of the estate, and the size of the patrols increased closer to the keep. Sentinels armed with crossbows and guns patrolled the roof, weapons at the ready. The Archbishop was a paranoid man – that, or Henry was protecting Cranmer out of all proportion. A lesser man might have trembled at the thought of trying to break through the seemingly impregnable defenses, but Connelly simply set a cold, calculating gaze on them as he wondered whether he'd have time to retrieve his throwing knives afterwards. Speed and precision would be paramount in the night's work; if they couldn't kill the Archbishop before he reached the traveler's road, it would turn into a running battle against superior numbers, which would not end favorably for the Assassins.

"Why not just move him by carriage?"

Connelly froze at the words, a dark red grape halfway to his lips. The pair of guardsmen passing him by didn't notice, and carried on their conversation.

"All I'm saying is, a carriage is much, much safer than horseback. If he's so worried about being jumped by a lunatic with a knife, why doesn't he just take a carriage out of town?"

"Because that's exactly what _they'll _be expecting," the man's comrade responded, his tone frustrated. They'd probably already gone over the topic several times.

"What _who'll_ be expecting?"

"You know. _Them_. Whoever it is that the Bishop's running from."

"If you ask me, he's just being paranoid. All this damn secrecy is ridiculous."

"Well, nobody's asked you, so you'll do as you're told. Just be at your station by sunset; I'll not cover for you again. The Bishop won't leave until he has the word that the route is prepared."

As their conversation turned to more mundane matters, Connelly resumed his walk with a sense of urgency. What he now knew could very well give them the victory.

* * *

"The smart thing to do would be to time everything perfectly. Doesn't he realize that a delay in the messengers could kill him?" Charles asked as he finished buckling his armor. Connelly had briefed the younger man upon their return to the inn, and now they made their final preparations for the night's work.

"He doesn't think like we do, lad," Connelly answered, giving his knife an experimental twirl to test its edge. The sharpened steel sang through the air, and the Assassin smiled grimly; he almost pitied whoever would eventually wind up its target. He gave the weapon a final spin before slipping it into its sheath. "These bureaucrats, they hide behind walls and armor. Cranmer's trying to play a game he doesn't understand."

"_Our _game," Charles said with a grin. He picked his broadsword up from where it lay on the bed and slid it into its scabbard, completing his arsenal. "The final plan?"

The older Assassin finished strapping his weapons in place before answering. "Take out the guards, but do it quietly; we don't want Cranmer to spook and change his plans. He won't leave until all his men are in place, but he'll be prepared to do so until the signal is given." Charles had discovered that each guard station along the Bishop's route had been instructed to send a messenger when they were in position.

"Start with those in the middle and work your way outward," Connelly continued his instructions. He considered the pouch of smoke bombs before slipping a single one into a pocket; he wasn't counting on needing any of them. "If the nearer messengers arrive, it'll take them some time to realize anything's wrong."

Charles already understood. "And you'll take Cranmer."

"I'll strike once he's ready to leave. If he escapes me, be ready to intercept him. Use the Whisperer if you have to."

Charles strode to the window and pushed aside the curtains. "The sun's starting to set," he commented, his smile fading away to be replaced by a look of cold determination.

In response, Connelly pulled up the hood of his robes, then unsheathed his right hidden blade and took an experimental swing before retracting it. "Then let the games begin."

* * *

Sunset is a magnificent time for hunters. The sun sits low on the horizon, making its blinding glare more difficult to avoid. Its light quickly changes, preventing the eye from easily adjusting to the ever-changing dappled shadows, granting greater protection to those who would hide within them. The setting sun also acts as a discreet signal to the human mind that the day was done, and it was time to rest. This caused an unconscious and almost imperceptible change in the behavior of most people; for a few minutes as they struggled to reassert themselves, they were slower and less alert than they would normally be. It wasn't much of a difference – but it was more than enough for an Assassin to exploit.

Charles Watson swung around the corner of a house not twenty feet from the nearest soldiers, a throwing knife in each hand. Before the four men could react to his sudden presence, the knives were airborne – but only for a fraction of a second. As they each buried themselves in the neck of a guard, Charles sprang and rolled forward, covering the distance to the soldiers. He came up already springing forward to slam the knuckles of his left fist into the Adam's apple of the closer of the remaining guards, slapping the man aside as his other hand drew his sword. The blade swung diagonally, cutting a bloody gash in the throat of the last guard before the man could bring his own weapon to bear. The Assassin pivoted and spun on his foot, both of his hands sending the sword flashing through the air. With Charles Watson's considerable strength behind the blow, it easily severed his opponent's neck.

Shaking some blood off his weapon, Charles turned to finish the job. One of the men he'd taken down with knives was already dead, but the other continued to gurgle through his ruined neck until Charles stabbed him in the heart. Charles turned to the man he'd punched, who was just beginning to recover enough to reach for his sword. He wasn't given the opportunity to draw it; the Assassin slammed him against a nearby wall, still-bloody sword against his throat.

"I hope you're feeling talkative; I'm in the mood for a little chat," the Assassin growled. "Which of you is the messenger? Speak quickly."

The man was still struggling to draw breath, but he managed to choke out, "I-I'm the messenger."

"It would have been a good idea to leave sooner, eh? What were you waiting for?"

"The c-c-courier from the other station, he-he-he hasn't arrived yet."

The Assassin cocked his head. "Courier from the other station? Why were you waiting for him?"

"O-o-orders. Each station relays the readiness of the one before."

Charles swore quietly to himself. This changed everything; if none of the stations received word that all was well, Cranmer would wall himself back into Nottingham Castle. Charles certainly couldn't convince the man before him to go on and lie to the next messenger; even if he did, there was the small problem of the bloodstains on his armor.

There wasn't time to change the plan. Charles couldn't possibly reach his superior in time to warn him. He could either try and fail, or simply hope that Master Connelly would be able to kill the Archbishop before Henry's soldiers realized something was wrong. If the Assassin Savant failed, Charles had already been instructed to intercept Cranmer before he could make his escape. That part of the plan, at least, required no modification.

"Are there any contingency plans in place?" Charles continued his interrogation.

His prisoner's response was almost instantaneous; "If no readiness report arrives, there's a coach ready to take the Bishop out through the southern part of town."

"Ah. And from whence is this coach meant to come?"

"A stationhouse on the edge of Nottingham has it ready. They're just waiting for the signal."

"What kind of signal?"

"A single cannon shot from the castle."

"Is there a signal ordering them to stand down?"

"N-not that I know of." The man was too terrified to be lying – Charles could detect the telltale scent of one whose bladder was unable to stand the stress.

"You've been most helpful. Thank you for your time." The soldier didn't have time to react to the ominous tone in Charles's final words before the Assassin ejected his arm-mounted blade and rammed it into the man's temple.

Charles let the body slide off the blade before sheathing both weapons. It took him an instant to come to a decision; he had to make sure that cannon never fired off its warning shot.

* * *

For a man trying to make his escape in secret, Cranmer was being awfully conspicuous in his preparations.

The lights of Nottingham Castle were lit, and even from his perch on one of the higher towers overlooking the main courtyard, Connelly could hear shouted orders and harried insults. He could see the horses that Cranmer and his men were to use; they'd been led to the front of the keep, where a detachment of armed guards already waited. Connelly sized them up, analyzing their armament. There were six of them, clearly armed for rapid mounted combat. They were lightly armored – they wore plated vambraces and greaves, but their chestguards were of studded leather. Short one-handed swords and wheellock pistols were strapped to their belts, and each man had a small buckler slung on his back.

Half a dozen lightly armed men posed no threat to anyone within the Assassin Guild, but Connelly wanted the Archbishop out in the open before he struck.

The Assassin flexed his fingers, willing Cranmer to finally emerge. He was no stranger to waiting, and he could do it well, but he was eager to finish the job and return to London, where Henry VIII awaited the feel of an Assassin blade in his neck. To pass the time, he began planning his attack.

He would begin with a throwing knife to the Bishop's throat. An ingenious weapon built to throw poison darts was mounted next to his right vambrace blade, but Connelly was more confident of his ability to accurately fling a knife in the relative dark of night. Added to that was the distance he would have to cover just to get within range…yes, the throwing knife was a better choice. Cranmer would hardly be able to run away with three inches of steel in his neck, which would give Connelly enough time to finish off the guards. If they were smart, they wouldn't reach for their pistols, which were too inaccurate and unwieldy to hit a fast-moving target in the dim lighting. They would draw their swords, and there was no chance of the six of them defeating Connelly in a swordfight. Somehow an alarm would no doubt be sounded by then, but Cranmer would already be on his way to the underworld, and Connelly would speed him along with the wrist-blade.

Just then, the double doors of the castle swung open. Connelly tensed his muscles, readying himself for the sprint to where the soldiers stood, and drew one of his throwing knives. The six men formed up in ranks; certainly the Archbishop was finally coming out of his hole. The Assassin took a deep breath, and then –

A shot rang out in the night.

* * *

"Damn you!"

It was a wasted breath; the gunman was already dead, the hilt of a sword protruding from his chest. After successfully making his way to the cannon tower without any alarms – though he'd had to cut a few throats to do so – Charles had dared to hope his plan would work perfectly. Lady Fate, it seemed, thought differently: just as he neared the cannon crew, one of them had dropped a coin that rolled right towards the section of battlement that Charles had just reached. When the soldier went to retrieve his money, he had locked eyes with the Assassin, who hadn't had time to drop down out of sight. The soldier hesitated; Charles did not.

He'd cleared the battlements in a heartbeat even as he drew his sword, knowing he had to act fast. The man who'd spotted him was dead two seconds later, his neck almost completely severed by a powerful stroke. The remaining three guards were smart; two went for their weapons to delay the attacker while the third grabbed at a nearby arquebus. Charles knocked aside the simultaneous lunges of his assailants and killed one with the backswing of his sword. The other tried to recover, but Charles kicked him in the ankle and sent him sprawling in pain. The third guard already had the arquebus in hand and was trying to prime it when Charles reached him and ran him through the heart. He turned to finish off the man he'd kicked, only to find that the guard had produced a pistol. There was no time to close the distance.

Charles had drawn back his arm and heaved, sending his broadsword spinning end over end through the air. It struck the man with enough force to knock him onto his back, the tip of the blade jutting from between his shoulder blades

The weapon missed the soldier's heart, however, and he survived just long enough to squeeze the trigger.

Dogs began barking, and lanterns were lit around the castle. Charles ran to retrieve his sword, wiping it on his victim's sleeve to remove some of the blood before sheathing it. Hopefully his initiative hadn't just cost them the night.

Still, he had a job to do. He unsheathed his armblade and used it to cut the ropes securing the cannon in place, then squatted down and took ahold of the heavy knob on the end of the cannon. It briefly occurred to him that the cannon's position meant firing it would damage a house somewhere in Nottingham, but the thought passed; what he was about to do would render the concern irrelevant. He took a deep breath before summoning his strength and lifting the end of the heavy iron gun, using the powerful muscles of his legs and arms to do so. The cannon must have weighed at least twice as much as him, yet the Assassin uttered no more than a grunt as, with a final burst of effort, he flipped it off the wall. The gun went crashing to the unseen ground below as Charles wiped the sweat from his brow.

Now for the stationhouse.

* * *

For a moment, James Connelly was tempted to retreat, to find Charles and get out of Sherwood as quickly as possible. Even if he could take on the castle's entire garrison, Cranmer could still make his escape while Connelly was busy dealing with the guards. The six men meant to serve as Cranmer's escort had drawn their swords, and they were joined shortly by four more swordsmen from within the keep.

The moment of fear passed. Even if the soldiers were alerted to the presence of an intruder, they didn't know exactly where or even by how many men the castle had been infiltrated. Connelly himself remained undetected, meaning he still had something of the element of surprise on his side. He let out the breath he'd been holding and focused on the orders being shouted around the castle.

"Get the Bishop to the horses! Make for the stationhouse – we'll get him out of Sherwood in the carriage!"

Stationhouse? Carriage? Connelly cursed quietly to himself; of _course _Cranmer had a backup plan.

Bowmen began to appear on the walls and towers, and more soldiers began assembling around the door to the keep. Connelly swore as he realized that even with the help of the lone smoke bomb he had, he couldn't possibly fight his way through all the assembled guards – at least not fast enough to prevent the bishop's escape. He briefly considered using his Mockingbird Gun to strike down Cranmer from afar, but dismissed the thought; the weapon's discharge would give away his position, and despite his great skill he was doubtful that he would be able to escape unscathed from all the bowmen and gunmen around the castle. In any case, he didn't think he could hit Cranmer at this range, nor would he be able to ascertain that the shot had killed the man instead of simply wounding him.

Connelly sprang off the tower and landed on a sentry patrolling the wall below. Connelly's weight drove the man to the stone floor, but the fall was not so great that the soldier did not survive the impact.

Before the man could make a sound, a gloved hand was clapped over his mouth as a Scotch-accented voice warned, "Cry out and you die. Cooperate, and you may yet live to see the morn." It wasn't much of a choice. The knee pressing into his back and the blade that suddenly appeared at his throat decided the matter.

"Cranmer's back-up plan," Connelly demanded, uncovering the man's mouth. "Speak quickly!"

To his credit, the soldier answered immediately and without stuttering: "There's a carriage waiting for him at the Royal Hand stationhouse, south of the castle. There's a golden fist painted on the door."

"Thank you." Connelly threw his arm around the soldier's neck in a triangle hold and choked him into unconsciousness. Just to be sure, he gagged the man and tied his arms with his own cape before leaping from the wall at beginning the race to the Royal Hand. He could hear the rumble of horses' hooves; the Bishop and his retinue were already mounted and on their way.

The Assassin ran as he had never run before. He was almost flying over the rooftops, a white blur against the darkness of the night. The sound of galloping horses was on the edge of his hearing, though it grew more and more distant; while he could keep traveling in a straight line over the rooftops, the riders were restricted to the winding roads.

Connelly took a final leap to the ground, rolling as his boots hit the streets. Through either sheer luck or some innate supersense, the building in front of him had a golden fist painted on its door. He paused for a moment to recover his breath when the sound of a footstep caught his attention.

"I take it you learned of Cranmer's escape plan as well."

"Fortune favors the bold, lad," Connelly answered as he straightened up. Charles Watson strode to the door and gave it a slight nudge. It didn't open, likely bolted on the inside. "Doesn't seem like they're expecting company," the older man quipped. Charles shook his head.

"They were waiting on a signal from the castle. A single cannon shot, but I made sure it wasn't coming."

"Pure dead brilliant, lad." The sound of hooves was growing in the distance; they had perhaps minutes before the Bishop and his escort arrived at the stationhouse. As the senior Assassin, it was Connelly's decision on what their next move would be. "Head around and see if you can find the coach. I'll find a way in on this side and see if I can't jump the bastard when he comes in seeking shelter." Charles nodded and disappeared around the side of the building. Connelly scanned the two-storey façade, his eyes finally settling on a window on the first floor that didn't seem to be quite as sealed as the others. Despite his tired state, it was easy enough for him to clamber up the wall and slip a finger inside to unlatch the window before sliding it open.

It was black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat inside the building. Connelly immediately grew suspicious; if they were meant to be waiting for Cranmer, why were there no lights? He ejected his vambrace blades as he crept deeper into the room. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness enough to allow him to make out the shapes of empty bunks, as well as a stairwell in the far corner. He had just reached the stairs when he heard perhaps a dozen horses come to a stop outside the building. There was no time to investigate or find a suitable ambush spot.

The Assassin crouched down on the top step, eyes closed as he strained to hear the slightest clue as to what was going on outside. He could hear bootsteps on the cobbled streets and the strained tones of people under stress, though their exact words were muffled by the door. Connelly opened his eyes and began to slowly creep down step by step, but stopped abruptly halfway down the stairs when he realized the room he had just descended into was full of seated figures.

Of _course_ they had no lights; they had likely been instructed to keep their alertness a secret until or unless the signal was given. Though it had never come, they were nonetheless in position to act; some were even moving for the door.

The Assassin was sure he could kill every man in the room, but it would be more prudent to allow the Bishop to enter, creating distance between him and any means of escape. He withdrew slowly up the steps and made it back into the relative safety of the upper room just as a lamp was lit in the space below. A series of knocks was followed momentarily by the sound of the heavy wooden door being hauled open.

"Is the carriage ready?" a voice demanded as men swarmed into the room.

"It's outside, but the horses haven't been yoked yet. We didn't receive the signal."

"There was no time. Someone was attacking the castle. Prepare the horses and get the Bishop aboard, quickly! You two, stand guard outside and make sure no one followed us." The last was probably directed at one of the men accompanying whoever was giving orders. It was a smart precaution, but a useless one in this case.

Connelly moved back to the window through which he had entered and peeked outside. Two soldiers had taken up positions on either side of the door. He could hear the occupants of the room below moving about, but no indication of another door being opened. Cranmer was still inside, then.

By now Charles had to have disabled the carriage. Even if he hadn't, he was still between the Archbishop and escape. The time had come to end the night's game of cat and mouse.

Connelly vaulted out the window, anchoring himself against the wall by gripping the sill. Before the two men could look up at the source of the noise, he kicked off and landed on them, driving his twin wrist blades into their bodies. He twisted the blades a bit before withdrawing them and kicking in the not-quite-shut door.

The men within were not as prepared for a surprise as they should have been. All the better for the Assassin cause, but somehow disappointing nonetheless. In the split second before he attacked, Connelly spotted Cranmer a little over halfway to the other side of the room. Whatever happened, the Bishop could _not _make it to the other door.

The Assassin pounced on the nearest soldier, slashing the man's throat apart with a sweep of his arms. He grabbed the dying man by the shoulder and twisted him around to block a sword stroke from another guard, then kicked the body away as he dove to the left. He rolled to his feet and came up directly in front of another soldier, who had his sword raised for a blow. Connelly simultaneously drove one blade into the man's sword hand and the other into his stomach at an upward angle. He spun away as he withdrew his weapons to strike at the soldier he'd thrown the first at.

As he finished that one off with a flurry of blows, three men came at him together. His body and blades whirled through the air, dispatching two of the attackers and sending the third to the floor with a powerful backhand. Connelly had a moment of breathing room to sheathe his armblades and draw his talwar before he was forced to deflect a surprisingly well-aimed lunge. He twisted the sword on the backswing to slash through his assailant's gut.

Belatedly he realized that there weren't as many men in the room as there should have been. Cranmer and his ten guards from the castle were present, as well as two others not in the livery of the King's Guard, but there should have been at least half a dozen more. If they had gone to prepare the carriage, that was six men less for him to deal with – but six more for Charles.

He couldn't worry about the younger man yet. Two of Cranmer's men were still standing, one of them adorned with the embroidered cape of a captain, as well as the two men of the local soldiery. The Bishop himself had tried to escape, but had apparently tripped over his own cloak; he was now sprawled on the floor, trying to disentangle himself from the folds of his clothes. Connelly wished he could spare a second to laugh at the ridiculousness of the moment. Instead, he could only be thankful for the accident, as it gave him more time to deal with the remaining men.

Connelly's vast experience and weapons expertise gave him an incredible edge over his opponents. The talwar's single cutting edge was best utilized by a fighting style vastly different from the thrust-and-parry-centered form the guards had apparently been trained in. It left them unprepared for his assaults, able only to instinctively try to block the whirling slashes and twisting blows the Assassin threw at them. Two of them – one of Cranmer's soldiers and one of the town watch – fell to Connelly's lightning-fast strikes within a minute. During the chaos of the melee, Cranmer had made it to the door on the opposite side of the room. He seemed to be having trouble opening it; something was barring it from the other side.

As Connelly finished off the second local, the captain managed to draw his pistol. The Assassin managed to twist aside just as the weapon fired. The ball missed Connelly by inches as he spun towards the last soldier, bringing his sword around for a high-to-low slash. Commendably the captain managed to block it, but was unable to get his weapon around in time as the Assassin pivoted on his heel and slashed the soldier's throat with his suddenly-extended wristblade. Connelly finished the man off with an upward diagonal stroke.

The Assassin sheathed his weapons as the captain's body crumpled to the bloodstained floor. Thomas Cramner cowered at the other end of the room, still unable to pry open the door. As Connelly paused to catch his breath, the man summoned the strength to flee up the stairs. Connelly followed without much haste; the only escape to be made was jumping out of a window, and Cranmer was unlikely to try that.

Cranmer had apparently tripped again; he was on the floor less than halfway across the room when Connelly reached the top of the stairs. The Assassin couldn't help himself; he mocked, "It seems the good Lord isn't with you tonight, Bishop. Perhaps you should be a bit more devout with your prayers."

The Bishop was paralyzed with fear at the sight of the hooded killer, unable to even speak. Connelly laughed as he unsheathed one of his vambrace daggers and began walking slowly towards the supine man. "I'll help you remember them. _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sant _– "

The rest of Connelly's words were lost as the building exploded.

* * *

It was not one of Charles Watson's best nights.

The arrival of Cranmer and his escort had come too soon for Charles to do any significant damage to the coach in which the Bishop was meant to escape. All he had managed to do was silently eliminate the men watching it, but he had been interrupted by the appearance of six more through a door. To make matters worse, a patrol of five arquebusiers had arrived just as Charles attacked the newcomers. These four refrained from firing into the battle, more because they could not be sure of hitting the Assassin than because they did not wish to kill their allies. However, once he had killed the last soldier, wedging the man's sword in the door, Charles had been forced to dive for cover as the gunmen opened fire. They were smart, these arquebusiers; instead of firing together, they staggered their shots to allow their comrades to reload. The resulting barrage of fire, combined with the distance between him and them, meant Charles could not attack them head on. He would have to shoot it out with them.

Charles had just drawn the Whisperer when he realized that he was crouching next to a barrel of gunpowder. No – it was _five _barrels of gunpowder. What they were doing there, he neither knew nor cared; a single unlucky gunshot would render the question utterly irrelevant.

Panic and the instinct to flee clawed at the edge of Charles's mind, but he fought it down. Desperate, he tried the first thing that came to his mind: he shouted, "Stop shooting, there's gunpowder here!"

Almost hilariously, it worked; the gunfire abruptly stopped before one of the soldiers had the presence of mind to order, "Kill him, you fools!" The pause was enough for Charles to spring from cover, firing the Whisperer one-handed at one of the gunmen. He leaped and rolled as the gunfire resumed, coming smoothly to his feet with the crossbow cocked and ready to fire. He sent another bolt through the air and into the eye of a second arquebusier before his luck ran out and a stray ball struck one of the barrels. This would have been no cause for concern had the bullet not ricocheted off the metal frame and hit a torch, dislodging it from its bracket enough that a few smoldering coals tipped out. The gunfire had done more damage than Charles had thought; black powder poured from holes in the barrels, setting the scene for a dangerous. It was not a favorable mix, that of gunpowder and flame.

The blast was thankfully not as large as Charles had feared. It blew a hole in the wall and wrecked the carriage meant for Cranmer, but most of the stationhouse remained intact, if badly shaken and aflame. More importantly, the remaining gunmen were heavily disoriented – enough for Charles to close the distance. He loosed another bolt before sheathing the Whisperer and drawing his sword, finishing the soldiers off with a few quick thrusts.

So much for the Bishop's escape plan…but where was Master Connelly?

* * *

The explosion had rocked the building, throwing both the Assassin and his prey to the wooden floor. Connelly fell badly, landing on his arm at an awkward angle. Pain shot up his arm as his wrist twisted under him, but that was just pain. What happened next was worse: his weight was too much for his weapon, and he felt rather than saw the blade snap off the mechanism underneath his forearm.

Time seemed to slow down as Connelly watched the broken blade slide away from him. It came to rest against the wall not six feet away, but it could have been on the other side of London. He had always known that it was possible, but it wasn't something he'd ever expected to happen to anyone in the Guild, let alone him.

He was brought out of his trance by the sound of breaking glass. When he looked up, one of the windows on the other side of the room was shattered, and Thomas Cranmer was nowhere to be seen. Though part of him knew it was wrong, his immediate priority was recovering the blade of his vambrace; suddenly, killing Cranmer could wait. The Assassin scrambled on all fours towards his weapon, snatching it up with one hand. He stared at the blade for what seemed like forever, turning it over in his hand before finally placing it within one of the leather pouches on his belt. There had to be a way to fix the weapon – it was inconceivable that a design could be used for over five hundred years if it couldn't be repaired.

Though he could smell smoke – downstairs, something was aflame – he belatedly turned his attention to Cranmer's escape route. Connelly ran to the window only to be met with a volley of gunfire; more soldiers had arrived. The Assassin waited for the lull that signified reloading, but the fusillade continued. Either they were smart and were staggering their reloads, or there was a very large number of gunmen outside. A direct assault would not end well for him.

As the barrage continued, Connelly ran to one of the windows on the building's side and shattered it with a kick. He heaved himself out and climbed up to the roof. From his new vantage point he could see that easily two dozen arquebusiers had gathered in front of the stationhouse. Just beyond them, a pair of soldiers was helping Cranmer onto a horse. The bishop had a limp in his right leg and held his right arm gingerly, but was nonetheless about to make an escape. Connelly knew he couldn't fight all the soldiers and hope to win; his only chance was to use the Mockingbird Gun to kill the Archbishop before he could escape. Connelly primed the miniscule firearm and took careful aim; the muzzle flashes breaking the darkness made it hard to see as well as he needed to. Just as his finger began to tighten on the trigger, another explosion shook the building. His shot went wide as he was thrown from his feet and rolled towards the edge of the tiled roof. He tried to catch the edge with one gloved hand, but failed and fell hard to the cobblestone ground twenty feet below. Though the Assassin managed to twist himself so that he landed on his feet and somewhat managed a hard roll, the impact stunned him and left him lying on his side. An eternity seemed to pass before he could even try to push himself to his feet, but his left arm failed him. At best it was a sprained wrist – at worst, something was broken.

Someone grabbed him around the chest and hauled him up. Seemingly from far away, a familiar voice said, "Up you get, Master. This is no place for a nap."

"Charles?" Even Connelly's own voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance.

"No, it's the Pope, here to make you a bishop yourself." Charles grunted as he pulled the senior Assasin's arm over his shoulders. "I've got the fancy hat and everything."

Connelly wanted to laugh, but his bruised ribs allowed only a snort. He took in as deep a breath as he could managed and ordered, "Get after Cranmer."

Charles shook his head as he started moving them away from the burning stationhouse; "It's been too long. Without a horse, I wouldn't even see where he went. I think we should make ourselves scarce."

Connelly pulled away from Charles and leaned against a nearby wall, shaking his head to clear it. "I can walk."

"With respect, Master, we don't need to walk; we need to _run_."

"I can do that just fine, you twit." As if to prove his words, Connelly took a running start up the wall across him and began climbing, fast. Charles quickly followed, knowing that the soldiers had already begun to scour the area. If they could get back to the tavern and change out of their robes, they'd stand a good chance of escaping without further incident. They had had enough problems for one night.

* * *

"We stay with the plan," Connelly grunted as he finished binding his ribs. "They're not going to check up on everyone who's arrived in town within the last week. As long as we don't cause any trouble, we'll be fine." He tucked the loose end of the linen into the bindings before lying down, breathing as deeply as he could manage. The bruising wasn't that bad and hadn't affected their rapid escape all that much, but every little bit helped when trying to act as though nothing was amiss. He couldn't appear in the tavern looking as though he'd gotten into a serious scuffle, lest someone find out about the night's fighting and make the connection.

Charles tightened the knot of the last strap around the canvas bag holding their robes and armor before answering, "You're the master here." He shoved the bag under his bed and stood up, rubbing his eyes. "I just can't wait to return to Urshall. I know no one ever said an Assassin's life was luxurious, but it _has _been two months since I last slept in a real bed and sat down to a nice big breakfast."

"London's not exactly without its bampots and bawbags at the moment, actually."

"Still a real bed and a big breakfast."

"Soon enough, lad," Connelly murmured, his eyes closed as he began to drift off to sleep. Though dawn was perhaps two hours away, he knew he would be able to rise with the sun. It was a necessary ability; getting out of bed late on the morning after an assassination tended to look suspicious to others, and the last thing Connelly needed was someone deciding to play the vigilante. "We had a sair fecht tonight, but at least neither of us is in more'n one piece."

The younger man chuckled as he sat on his own bunk and checked that his dagger was under the pillow. The vambrace blade was a superior self-defense weapon, but it was too dangerous to wear when one was asleep; an errant twitch during a bad dream could result in a bloodily unwelcome awakening. Satisfied, Charles pinched out the candle that kept the room lit, throwing both Assassins into darkness.


	7. Les frères Bourdet, part une

**Chapter Six: Les frères Bourdet, part une**

No sane man would willingly enter the Tower of London without a very good reason. Though the fortress had once played host to England's royalty, recent years had seen it fall into disuse, at least as far as hosting the nobility was concerned. Nowadays its main purpose was the incarceration of those the Crown deemed both too dangerous and too valuable to throw into the notoriously perilous Fleet Prison. While hardly a holiday retreat, imprisonment in the Tower was still infinitely preferable to facing the corrupt wardens and dark dungeons of the Fleet. Still, it was not a happy place; prisoners were afforded few freedoms, and there was always the fear that the next time one's cell door opened, it would be the King's soldiers coming for one's head.

Adrian Bourdet was not an entirely sane man, and he had a mission to complete. Though he was two ranks away from the white robes that marked a full Assassin, he was an expert infiltrator who possessed iron nerves and keen observation skills. By the time he reached the end of Thames Street, just at the edge of the rather colorlessly-named Tower Hill, he had already decided on a course of action. Only three kinds of people were allowed into the Tower, aside from the men who garrisoned it: high-ranking nobility on the King's business, political prisoners, and a Yeoman of the Guard – one of Henry VIII's personal soldiers. The first two options were out of the question; Adrian doubted he could properly portray a stuck-up arseheaded nobleman, and he couldn't possibly pretend to be both a political prisoner _and _his escort. That left only the impersonation of a member of the King's own guard.

Fortunately, there were over two hundred men in the Guard. The number was considerably lower than the near-thousand of almost a decade earlier, but still a great deal more than was necessary for his ruse to succeed. It was highly unlikely that there was anyone who knew all of them by face and name. If there were such a man, he certainly would not be standing guard at the Tower of London. Adrian couldn't imagine how much more difficult his task would be if the technology to instantly idenfity names and faces had been invented.

Adrian paused for a moment to take in the bastion he would have to infiltrate. The Tower – actually a walled fortress compound – was certainly intimidating at first glance. A single gate provided the way in or out of the compound, and it was guarded at all times. The enormous barriers looked impossible to scale even for the most athletic Assassins, though the gateways seemed more conducive to a climber. It had once been meant to protect England's royalty, and it showed. It could not be broken into by force – probably not by anyone less than the legendary Assassins of ages past, and certainly not by a novice of the Order. Disguise and deception would provide Adrian's way in and out.

Of course, before he could imitate a Yeoman of the Guard, he would have to find one.

Arthur's task was much simpler – in theory, at least. One man couldn't hope to keep track of all the goings-on within Whitehall, but Master Ludlum's instructions were simply to take note of anyone who left carrying messages from the king. Arthur was fairly certain he could identify any couriers, in no small part due to the king's tendency to surround his messengers with armed guards. The Italians, masters of cutthroat skullduggery that they were, understood the value of subtlety, but England's monarchs tended to use a more brutish approach – perhaps secrecy was too difficult a concept for the foppish chivalry-obsessed Tudors. It was something for which the Assassins should probably have felt grateful.

Arthur certainly did; it also meant he could sit barely beyond Whitehall's barriers for hours and never once be identified as a spy of any sort. Someone who started a brawl within view of the King's bedroom window was seconds away from an arrest and imprisonment, but a commoner out for a stroll wasn't worth noticing. Nor, for that matter, was a bricklayer, or a fruit merchant, or an errand-runner. As he approached, Arthur reflected on how there was such a large variety of roles he could play that "owl-work", as the Guild called it, was almost ridiculously easy even for one of his relatively low rank.

For now it would be enough to wander up and down the street leading to Whitehall's main gate, just another aimless Londoner with a free afternoon. Save for the easily-concealed wrist blade, he hadn't donned his Assassin garb – a heavily-armed person in a hood was _not _one of the kinds of people who would go unnoticed right outside the king's door – which meant he would be effectively invisible in the throng that filled the busy thoroughfare. In his faded brown vest and brimmed cap, he looked no more threatening than a drunkard – even the dagger at his belt was unlikely to attract much notice unless he was forced to kill someone with it. Arthur took one last look at the palace, then tilted his cap forward and faded into the crowd.

Seven years ago Henry VIII had finally brought his then-rampant Yeomen under full control. In addition to reducing their numbers and pay – which were officially never supposed to have been as high as they were – he had decreed that they would have no servants and had to wear a uniform in the colors of the House of Tudor. This last part was the most relevant to Adrian's task; it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a tailor who could be convinced to replicate one of the uniforms, let alone one who could do it perfectly. Adrian would need to find a Yeoman of roughly his height and build. He would also have to be in the lower echelons of the Guard; a higher-ranking or older Yeoman would be easier to recognize and likely to be missed sooner.

It was with this in mind that Adrian stalked the housing districts along the Thames, aware that the low cost of housing meant that the less-than-wealthy guardsmen would make their homes there. If he was lucky, one would be coming off-duty, still in uniform and easily identifiable. Otherwise Adrian would have to rely on his skills at breaking and entering places he wasn't meant to be, and the talent for observation that all Assassins shared.

He pulled the hood of his tattered brown cloak further over his face as his gray eyes swept the streets. In this part of town, it was better to look like a man whom it would be extremely dangerous to disturb. Beneath the roughspun cloak

There wasn't much of a crowd out; though London was far from a sweltering city, the early afternoon sun still kept anyone who didn't have anywhere to go from wandering outside. Nonetheless, Adrian's gaze locked onto a man whose stride hinted at having had a few drinks. His dull-colored clothes gave away nothing about his occupation, but the sword and scabbard at his side were of a higher quality than someone at his apparent station in life would be able to afford. The hard leather, the polished gold grip…the man was either a very successful mercenary or a royal guard, and mercenaries who made that much money usually had far more sense than to get drunk in the middle of the day.

"Hello, Yeoman."

Adrian quicked his pace, keeping his quarry in sight. The soldier was too inebriated to realize he was being tailed, which made Adrian's task much simpler. Finally, the man disappeared down a shady side road. A cloaked figure followed him, a sealed glass vial in one gloved hand.

By three o'clock in the afternoon, four messengers had left Whitehall. None were equipped for a long journey, which likely meant Henry's concerns were mainly within London. They were all armed and escorted, if even only by two soldiers each. Either they were destined for minor officials, or Henry thought smaller escorts made less tempting targets for the Assassins. Whichever it was, Arthur committed it all to memory.

From where he sat in the shadow of a closed store, Arthur could see little to indicate anything out of the ordinary was going on in Whitehall. He'd passed by the palace many times, and the activity visible through the windows wasn't any different from what he'd seen before. At the very least, he would have expected Henry to strengthen his guard – more numerous patrols, heavier weaponry and armor, that sort of thing. Either Henry was trying to act as though recent events were of little consequence, or he was so confident in his forces that he was genuinely unconcerned by the actions of the Assassins.

Word of Thomas Cranmer's death would likely change that.

The gates of Whitehall opened to let a force of men-at-arms march out, probably on their way to bolster the guard of one of Henry's supporters. It was the third such group to depart the palace during the day, and Arthur barely paid them any attention until one of them peeled off down a side street.

That was new.

Silent as a ghost, Arthur pushed himself to his feet and headed after the loner. His orders were simply to count the couriers who left Whitehall; while going after this man may have been a violation of those orders, Arthur had a feeling this was something that could not be ignored.

He caught up to the man easily enough. It helped that his prey stood out from the crowd in his scarlet clothes and plate armor – and that everyone else gave him a wide berth. They did no such thing for the inconspicuously-dressed Assassin who trailed in his wake.

This was no ordinary soldier. His arms and armor were no different from those of many Arthur had seen in his lifetime – if slightly more decorated, as most of the soldiers from Whitehall were – but the man's movements were too serious, too purposeful. He knew where he was going, and he knew he had to get there as soon as possible. Wherever that was, Arthur was determined to follow.

The Assassin found himself quickening his pace when the man he was tracking did. _He's in a hurry, this soldier_, Arthur thought to himself as he swung into an empty alley after the man. Whatever message he was delivering was something very –

Razor-sharp instincts saved Arthur's life before he even realized he was in danger. He dropped backwards into a roll as the soldier fired a pistol at him. The ball missed Arthur by barely a foot, but another firearm was already in the man's hand by the time the Assassin was back on his feet. Before the soldier could get off another shot, Arthur's hand snapped forward, his dagger flying through the air. He wasn't the best knife-thrower in the Order, but he still managed to knock the soldier's pistol out of his hand. Arthur took a running start and sprang off the wall towards his target. The soldier's sword was halfway out of its sheath when Arthur delivered a powerful hammerfist to the side of his helmet. As the man staggered, the Assassin followed up with an open-handed uppercut and a side thrust kick.

Arthur tried to move in, but his opponent managed to get his sword out, forcing the Assassin to dodge backwards out of reach of a wild swing. Instead of attempting a backstroke, the soldier redirected his weapon and lunged at Arthur, almost catching him in the stomach. Arthur spun to one side, using the hidden armguard of his Assassin's blade to deflect the sword before backhanding the soldier. He tried to wrest the sword away, but the other man's grip was too strong. The Assassin was forced to temporarily abandon his disarm attempt, instead stepping around his opponent and striking him in the kidney.

If he had simply meant to kill the man, it would have been a simple matter to unsheathe the hidden blade and bury it in the soldier's relatively unprotected throat. However, that would leave Arthur with a corpse unable to provide any of the answers he was looking for.

Taking targets alive was always an annoying complication.

As the soldier turned to face him, Arthur fired a kick at the man's sword hand, hoping to knock the blade away. His foot connected, but the soldier managed to pull back somewhat from the impact, lessening the force of the blow. No, this was definitely no ordinary soldier.

The sword came down in a cleaving stroke, which Arthur blocked by throwing his forearms up in an X-shape to catch the soldier's wrist. This, however, left him open to an uppercut that followed the swing faster than Arthur would have expected.

He fell with the blow, rolling backwards over his shoulder and coming up out of his opponent's reach. The man threw himself forward into a two-handed lunge that Arthur avoided by twisting aside, grabbing his attacker's wrist as he went by. The Assassin pivoted on his heel, using the other man's momentum to swing him around. Robbed of his balance, the soldier crashed to the cobbled street. His sword, however, remained in Arthur's hands.

Arthur tossed the weapon behind him as the soldier regained his feet. "This fight's about over, friend. You wanna save yourself some pain, you come along quietly so we can have a little chat."

When the soldier pulled a second pistol from his belt, Arthur felt a moment of panic. He quickly tamped it down and laughed. "Right, because your last was so successful."

The soldier narrowed his eyes. "You'll get no answers from me, Assassin." Before Arthur realized what he meant, the man primed the weapon, placed the muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger.

Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Now that's just bloody spiteful."

Yeoman Nicolas Cotton awoke in terror. Though he was sure he had opened his eyes, his vision was filled only with darkness. He tried to move and cry out for help, but found himself gagged and tightly bound to a chair. The harder he struggled, the more the knotted cords bit into his arms and legs. The pounding in his head only served to heighten his fear and inspire him to greater efforts.

It was all in vain. The seat to which he was roped was solidly made, and likely bolted to the floor for all he could move it with his attempts at escape. Finally he stopped his struggles, exhausted and almost crippled by the thunderous liquor-induced headache. He had almost mustered his strength for another attempt when a voice spoke in the darkness:

"Ah, you're awake. Good."

Cotton turned his head in the direction of the voice. It was a man who spoke, calm but serious. Cotton could only assume this was his captor, or a confederate thereof. The only positive thought he could summon was that the man clearly didn't want him dead, at least not just yet. There was still a chance of surviving this ordeal.

"You and I are going to make a deal. Accept my terms and you live. Refuse and you die. Nod if you understand."

With little choice, Cotton nodded. The other man chuckled, and Cotton felt a hand grasp the blindfold. His vision was abruptly restored to him as the rough cloth was yanked from his head.

He found himself in a dark room, a single candle casting a small circle of light upon him. It was too dark to tell whether the room he was in had no windows or if they were simply blocked by something. He turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of his captor's face, but the darkness hid the other man well. Cotton could only make out that the man wore a hooded cloak, even though he stood just beyond the light.

The man stepped closer and lifted one gloved hand. In it he held a clear glass vial filled with what appeared to be water. A metal rod protruded from one end, a thin needle from the other. "I don't suppose you know what this is?" Cotton shook his head. The man emitted a low chuckle and used his thumb to press the rod into the vial, causing some of the liquid to squirt of of the apparently hollow needle. "It's a handy little apparatus from India. Over there they use it to water each other during religious festivals, but some friends of mine across the Channel have found a much better use for it." Cotton's captor rotated the device so the needle was pointing at the floor.

"As it so happens, it's a beautiful piece of equipment for poison. Just walk up behind your mark, stick them once in the rear," this he accompanied with a sharp stabbing motion, "and you have a man who won't be waking up the next morning." He twirled the device in his fingers thoughtfully. "Of course, it becomes slightly trickier when you don't want to kill the person – at least not right away." The hand disappeared back into the folds of the cloak as the man walked around to Cotton's right side. "It's too dangerous to flood the muscles with toxins, which means one must find a vein. Obviously one can't simply pin a man down and start stabbing him until one strikes true, so I must thank you for having been so easy to put to sleep. It made applying _this _so much simpler."

Cotton felt his captor flick a finger against something on his right arm. It was only then that he realized something was squeezing the upper part of the limb, cutting off the flow of blood and making it feel thick and sluggish. He twisted to take a look and saw a strip of cloth tied tightly around his upper arm. Just beneath it, in the crook of his elbow, another strip – this one stained with a small circle of blood – was similarly applied.

A blade appeared in the other man's grip. Cotton felt a surge of panic as the man cut through the cloth before returning the knife to the folds of his cloak. The trapped soldier tried to scream, tried to cry out, "What have you done to me?" Instead, the gag muffled his words, but his captor understood nonetheless.

"There's a very special little poison inside you right now. It's not designed to kill outright, but it will be painful, and there is no cure. Luckily, if you survive long enough – not long, just a day or so – your body will wash it out and you can go on living your miserable life." The hand reappeared, this time holding a wax-stoppered vial filled with a dark liquid. "This is not an antidote in the usual sense of the word, but a thimbleful every two hours or so can counteract the poison and keep you alive until your blood is clean. The amount I gave you should take a little over a day to wash out."

The man placed the vial on Cotton's lap. The Yeoman's eyes were locked on his salvation, but quickly returned to the still-hidden face of his antagonist when the man spoke again from the edge of the light; "Now listen carefully, because this is your chance to save yourself.

"I'd like to take a private tour of the Tower of London, maybe visit some friends of mine who are staying as guests of the king. Now, since armed visitors aren't usually granted entry, I require your services in getting in. I need you to get me past the guards and out again once I've concluded my business. No one will be harmed and nothing will be taken." The man walked back up to his captive and dropped to one knee. "In return, you get this," here he tapped the vial of antidote, "and a fascinating story to tell the children you will survive to bear.

"It seems only fair to warn you that while I do have more of the poison, I only have enough of the antidote to keep you alive for one day. If any more of the nasty stuff gets in you, you're on your own – I very much doubt even the king's apothecaries will have anything to help you."

The man stood up and took a few steps back.

"So then, my good Yeoman, which shall it be: death, or a harmless little lie?"

It was the threat of more poison that sealed the Yeoman's compliance, although there had been no doubt that he would eventually bend to Arthur's demands. Perhaps the man had been planning to betray Arthur to the Yeoman Warders – the Tower's guard force – and take the antidote by force. However, if there wasn't enough of the medicine, there was nothing to be gained by seizing it.

Of course, none of that mattered because it was all a lie. There was no antidote to be seized and aside from blood and a copious amount of alcohol, Arthur neither knew nor cared what flowed through his captive's veins. It was certainly nothing he'd put there, because all he'd done with the syringe was poke a hole in the Yeoman's arm and bandage it up. He had no idea if there was such a toxin as the one he'd described, but he most definitely didn't have it.

When the Yeoman nodded fearfully, the Assassin allowed himself a little grin that his less-than-willing comrade could not see. Arthur strode to a table against one wall and poured water into a wooden cup from a similarly-created pitcher. He took a drink before refilling the cup and returning to the Yeoman, using one hand to rip the gag from his mouth.

"Drink up, friend," he said as he held the cup to the man's lips. "We're going for a walk."


	8. Les frères Bourdet, partie deux

**Chapter Seven: ****Les frères Bourdet, partie Deux**

"You know, I do hope your king's version of God is less strict about suicide than the Catholic one," Arthur said almost conversationally to the corpse he was searching. "Those arsefaces would've had you spat on and lobbed in the Thames. At least with this whole schism you stand a chance of a decent burial." He paused, then shrugged. "Assuming Henry doesn't have you spat on and lobbed in the Thames anyway for this cock-up."

The soldier had been carrying little in the way of personal effects, and even less of anything that looked even slightly important. Arthur appropriated a small pouch of coins, choosing to leave the supply of ammunition and powder meant for the man's pistols. Starting gunfights in the heart of London was a bad idea for a small organization, even one full of highly-trained killers. He also decided to take neither the poniard nor – after a small sip that proved a little more than off-putting – the wineskin at the man's belt.

The only thing that could possibly have been of any importance was a leather-wrapped bundle of gold-plated rods, each about half again the length of his hand and four fingers thick. Silver rings enclosed the length of each cylinder save for a small ridge of gold wire at either end. Characters carved into the rings indicated each cylinder was actually a combination-locked container that would open when the proper alignment was achieved, but Arthur had neither the time nor the patience to work on them. Instead, he rewrapped them in the leather and tucked the bundle into a pouch on his belt. Lady Ludlum would probably enjoy the challenge.

After a moment's consideration, Arthur decided to leave the body where it lay. Each dead soldier was a message to Henry that his enemies still stalked London, waiting for him to make a fatal mistake. It would also entail a good amount of effort to drag the body somewhere secluded and clean up the blood, and Arthur could be very lazy.

Arthur moved to stand when footsteps alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

Five men entered the alley where he'd fought and killed the guardsman. They were dressed in well-worn tunics and breeches in shades of brown and grey, and the leather of their boots and vests was scuffed. Nonetheless, something about them seemed wrong; they didn't carry themselves like common street ruffians, and the dirks they held seemed almost new. One of them – probably the leader, given that his clothes were slightly less worn that those of his comrades – stepped forward and gestured to the dead body with the weapon in his hand.

"I'm sure you know the penalty for killing one of the king's men, my friend." Like the rest of him, the man's accent was both unremarkable and somehow wrong.

The Assassin slowly got to his feet, drawing the corpse's poniard as he stood. Against five thugs he was sure he could do better that simply hold his own, but these men were no ordinary hooligans. "I don't suppose it's a slap on the wrist and no pudding after supper."

"Very funny. Hand over the money and whatever other trinkets you took, and maybe we let you walk away."

"No thanks. If you hand over yours, though, I'll leave _you _alive. Can't say the same for your friends."

The man nodded as though he hadn't expected anything less.

Arthur spun to meet the first attack, which came from the two men behind him. He deflected a thrust and used his free hand to grab the man behind it by the arm, pivoting to throw him off balance and into his comrade.

The key was to move in among his opponents, never focusing on any one of them for more than a few seconds. Their superior numbers would prove fatal if he let them tire him out or distract him, but by dividing his attention he could whittle the odds down to his favor. What complicated things slightly was that he wanted at least one of them to survive the fight to tell him who they really were – Arthur was certain they weren't the opportunistic ruffians they were trying to portray.

The Assassin managed to twist around in time to parry another straight lunge, using his backswing to slash open his assailant's arm. It wasn't a major wound by any means, but it would temporarily take him out of the fight and perhaps force him to switch hands – no challenge for the highly-trained Assassins, but a disadvantage for most anyone else. Arthur slammed a fist into the man's elbow just to be certain.

As the man he'd cut fell back to recover, Arthur rounded on the fourth man, who was coming at him with his blade held high. Arthur stepped into the attack, using his own weapon to parry the dagger while bringing his elbow up in a powerful strike followed by a backhand that staggered his opponent. Arthur reoriented himself to face the second attacker's high jab, which Arthur ducked before slashing at the man's side. His opponent managed to twist away from the attack, but Arthur came around with a thrust that only just missed its target as he backpedalled away. Arthur dropped and swept his foot around, scything the man's legs out from under him and sending him to the ground.

As the first enemy resumed the offensive, Arthur unsheathed his hidden blade and darted in, knocking his assailant's weapon hand aside while slamming the wrist blade between the man's ribs. The second man came on, and Arthur quickly withdrew, spinning on his heel as he reversed his grip on his dagger to smash the butt into the man's face. He quickly recocked his arm and snapped it forward to slash a bloody line through the man's throat. Arthur twisted again, this time bringing one foot up to kick the dying thug away. It left the Assassin free to turn his attention back to Bloody Arm and Ringleader.

He'd moved just in time; Bloody Arm came at him with a cry of rage, his dirk now in his left hand while his right was cradled against his chest. It was a poor attack born of desperation; too wide, too unbalanced, it was easy to dodge and left its instigator open to a counterattack. Arthur stabbed the man in the kidney with his hidden blade as he went by. It was not an immediately fatal wound, but it took Bloody Arm out of the fight.

That left two: Ringleader and the man Arthur had tripped, who had by now gotten to his feet and retrieved a fallen blade. He advanced on the Assassin with a look of grim determination on his face, twin weapons at the ready. Arthur sprang forward with a sweep of his dagger, wristblade held back for a follow-up strike. His opponent's response proved his lack of training in fighting with two weapons – instead of parrying with one and using the other to strike, he swung both at Arthur's blade, leaving himself open to the Assassin's strike. Arthur pushed the blades up with his dagger and shoved his wristblade into the other man's throat.

Arthur dropped the poniard as he turned to face Ringleader, the last man standing. "Feeling lucky?" he asked almost casually as he stalked closer to his prey, withdrawing the hidden blade as he did so. Arthur wanted this one alive.

To his credit, the man wasn't stupid enough to be baited into a frenzied assault. He took a cautious step forward, blade at the ready. Clearly he wasn't about to make any stupid mistakes, so Arthur decided to draw him into one. The Assassin darted forward, and Ringleader responded with an admirably quick lunge. Arthur swayed inside his opponent's guard, grabbing his wrist in both hands and using his left leg to sweep the man's right, unbalancing him and allowing the Assassin to wrench him to the ground. Suddenly the dirk was in Arthur's hand, and he slammed the pommel into his captive's jaw before pressing the edge of the blade against his jugular.

"You seem like a talkative fellow. Why don't you tell me about your friends?"

"What friends?" The man was remarkably calm for someone seconds from death. It was the final clue.

Arthur chuckled and said, "You can drop the accent. You're no more English than I am a Turk."

The man grimaced as Arthur nicked his neck with the blade, drawing a slim line of blood. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that was decidedly not of the British Isles – at least not within the last hundred years. "I will tell you nothing about _mes ami, assassin_."

"Well, first of all, there's only one man in England who could bring in French soldiers to hunt down troublemakers. Brilliant accent, by the way, almost had me. Second," Arthur continued, hauling the man to his feet, "you may not want to speak to someone who just murdered your friends, but there's a very beautiful woman I'd like to introduce you to, and I promise you'll want to speak to _her_."

"I will not come willingly, English _b__â__tard_, and you cannot carry me across London."

Arthur had pulled his captive's belt free and was using it to tie his wrists together as he answered, "I admit that carrying an unconscious idiot around might seem somewhat dodgy, but no one would suspect a thing if it were a sack of meat slung over my shoulder."

Before Frenchie could say anything, Arthur pressed his forearm into the man's neck. He was unconscious within a minute – but he wouldn't be out for long. It still gave the Assassin enough time to finish binding the man hand-and-foot, and to stuff a crumpled rag in his mouth. A cloth sack that lay against a wall provided the finishing touches. It wasn't the first time Arthur had had to turn a man into a meat sack, but this was probably one of the more important times. By the time the Frenchman started struggling, he was on a road to a terrible place.

* * *

The uniform fit Adrian surprisingly well, given that he was considerably less rotund than his unwilling benefactor. The Assassin had had to cut another hole in the belt and fold the tunic in somewhat, but the final effect worked well enough to pass all but the most serious scrutiny. Thankfully the sleeves were loose enough for him to conceal his vambrace blade, which was what really mattered – though hopefully he wouldn't have to use it.

All that remained was to bluff his way into the Tower, in regards to which his new friend would be very helpful.

"Remember, Cotton," Adrian said as the pair made their way towards the Middle Tower gatehouse, "in _and _out, or you're going to ruin some poor street sweeper's day with what'll come out of you."

The Yeoman chose not to reply, probably mentally rehearsing his lines for the Warders at the gate. Adrian hadn't given him any specific instructions regarding his alibi, only that they were supposed to speak to one of the prisoners. When pressed, Cotton – the man had been reluctant to provide his name, but Adrian was very persuasive – had admitted that the mere uniform of Henry's lapdogs would gain entry with little fuss. It was an almost hilarious loophole in the Tower's security, but Adrian wasn't about to point it out to anyone.

The moment of truth was almost upon them. Mere seconds from the gate, Adrian leaned in and whispered, "Relax, friend. You'll do fine."

Cotton didn't have a chance to answer – at that moment, a pair of blue-clad Warders stepped from the shadows of the Middle Tower, halberds at the ready. "Halt, who goes there?" the larger of the two challenged in a powerful baritone as he stepped into their path.

Cotton's voice was admirably steady as he replied, "Yeomen of the King's Guard, on His Majesty's business."

"Identify yourselves."

Adrian was surprised at the speed with which the second lie was issued: "Yeomen Nicolas Cotton and Radcliffe Dalton, come to draw the records for the King's perusal."

The Warder nodded and stepped aside, loudly proclaiming, "Pass, Yeomen of the King's Guard."

Once they'd passed through the gates, Adrian asked, "Radcliffe Dalton?"

"Friend from the army," Cotton answered tersely. Adrian decided not to push the issue – he couldn't blame the man for not feeling particularly chatty.

They met a second pair of Warders at the entrance to the White Tower, the main keep. Cotton repeated the little scene, and they were once more allowed to pass. Adrian briefly wondered whether he could have pulled off the entire farce alone, but decided that Cotton apparently knew the proper responses and was therefore a safe companion.

The Yeoman had been here before; Adrian followed him as he unhesitatingly made his way to what Adrian could only assume was the records room, where a single Warder seated behind a desk barely even looked up as they entered.

The room was filled with desks and cabinets, on top of and against which were stacked innumerable tomes and scrolls, each likely bearing records of the people who had passed through the Tower. Chains and keys were thrown into every available space – this was, it seemed, also a storage area. It was a hilariously poor display of competence that would have been depressing were it not helpful to the Assassin's mission.

"Cell records in there," the Warder mumbled, gesturing with one hand towards a large wooden chest against one wall. He still didn't look up as he reached for a flagon of what was probably ale – nothing like a bitter best friend when it came to tediously sorting through paperwork.

"I'm sure they are," Adrian cheerfully agreed as he walked towards the chest, one hand dropping to his belt. As he approached the man, he pulled a corked leather bottle from a pouch at his back and deftly unstoppered it with his thumb and forefinger. His other hand picked up a sheaf of papers, onto which he dripped some of the liquid. He stepped up to the man from behind and held the papers beside his face. "Our orders. You'll want to give them a good read-through."

The Warder sighed and took the sheaf, not noticing that Adrian's hand remained just beside his head – and that it now held the still-open bottle. He took a sniff, having detected the sweet smell emanating from the papers in his hand and the container next to him, but he either didn't realize the danger of an unfamiliar odor or simply didn't really care all that much. Adrian cast a glance at Cotton, who stood silently just within the doorway, unsure of how to react. _Better than trying to do something stupid_.

"Wait, these aren't . . . orders . . . " The Warder was struggling to remain conscious even as he spoke. Adrian leaned down to blow more of the fumes from his bottle into the Warder's face, trying to speed him along. "They're . . . these are . . . " With that, the man slumped onto the desk, asleep before he hit the wood.

"Took you long enough," Adrian muttered as he resealed the bottle.

Cotton, who had remained silent the entire brief episode, finally worked up the courage to ask, "What did you do to him?"

"Gave him a nap," Adrian said conversationally as he shifted the insensible Warder aside to see what he had been working on. "He'll be fine when he wakes up."

"When will that be?"

"Maybe an hour."

"And what do you plan to do until then?"

"I think I'll have a chat with one of the guests." Adrian straightened up, having found what he sought. He grabbed the Warder's abandoned flagon and took a swig. "_You _are going to stay here and keep our friend company. This isn't the best bitter I've ever had, but it'll still keep you company just fine."

"I could leave and call the other Warders on you."

"And you'd shit yourself to death within the hour."

"We could take the antidote from your corpse."

"If you think I'd let you catch me, you sorely underestimate my abilities," Adrian laughed. "I do appreciate how you brought me in, but I assure you I'd have little trouble escaping without your help. And again, you'd shit yourself to death within the hour. Can't emphasize that enough."

Cotton chewed his lower lip, but ultimately he had little choice but to acquiesce to the Assassin's command. Adrian gave him a little grin before striding out the door, sweeping a key ring off a table as he did so.

Adrian wasn't familiar with the layout of the Tower, but he had a good idea of where the more important prisoners were kept. The Warders themselves would help with that – as far as Adrian knew, there were currently only two high-profile "guests" in the Tower at the moment, which meant there would only be two well-guarded cells. The records indicated they were fairly far apart; perhaps Henry didn't want two of his greatest detractors yelling at each other across the corridor. _The doors are probably thicker than that, _he mused.

It didn't take long to find a cell guarded by no less than three men: one stood by the solid wooden door while two sat at a nearby table, each one with a wooden mug of something at hand. Despite their laxity, the numbers seemed a bit extreme; did Henry think this sixty-year old man was suddenly going to generate the strength to smash his way out? The king was either paranoid, or the Yeomen needed some kind of recreation.

Adrian squared his shoulders as he approached the three, praying he had the correct cell. Unlike the men at the gate, these three did little more than look up at him – guard duty had them bored, no matter the prestige of this particular prisoner. One of them – presumably the most senior – issued a halfhearted, "Who goes there?"

"Yeoman Dalton, to speak with Bishop Fisher on the King's business." His stern expression never changed, but inside Adrian was in a cold sweat. If he had the wrong room, things would get extremely awkward.

Lady Luck, however, was with him. The man by the door turned and pushed a key into the lock. He opened the cell and let Adrian step inside before closing it behind him.

The cell was larger than Adrian had expected – it was almost a study, really, what with the narrow bookcase against one wall and the desk against another. A well-sized bed next to a chamber pot and a small dresser completed the room. John Fisher sat writing at the desk, his back to the door. The old man didn't even look to see who'd come to meet him – perhaps he simply assumed it was someone sent to torture him, as Adrian presumed had happened more than once.

The Assassin glanced around the room, finally deciding it would be safe to speak plainly; the walls were solid stone save for a single barred window, and the door was too thick for sound to carry through to the men outside. So long as neither of them raised their voices, no one would be any the wiser. Just for fun, Adrian dropped the pitch of his voice a couple of notches before speaking.

"Bishop Fisher. The King sends his regards."

"When you leave, bring Henry my thanks for his hospitality." Fisher's voice was weaker than Adrian remembered – even in such relatively good conditions, a prison was still a prison. "I have little else to say to you."

Adrian chuckled. When he spoke again, he did so as he normally would. "And what of Robert Ludlum?"

The scratch of quill on parchment abruptly stopped, and Fisher slowly turned in his seat to look at his guest. A slow, steady smile spread across the old man's face as he slowly got to his feet. "I hope you'll forgive me for asking, but which Bourdet is this? My memory's not what it used to be." Before Adrian could answer, Fisher held up a hand. "Wait, no. It's Adrian, isn't it? I don't recall that Arthur particularly enjoyed playing dress-up."

"Just as well; he was never very good at it," Adrian said matter-of-factly. He gave a smile of his own as he clasped the older man's arm.

"I'd offer you a drink," Fisher said as he released Adrian and made for his chair, "but my possessions are somewhat diminished as of late. The bed makes a decent seat, though," he added, gesturing.

"Thank you, Bishop," Arthur said as he took the offered seat. His face took on a more serious aspect as he told Fisher, "We haven't much time, so I'll be brief. Master Ludlum would like to know if you've grown tired of these accommodations and want to prematurely end your stay."

Fisher shook his head. "I told Robert, there's too much risk in my freedom unless the King himself grants it. He would never stop hunting me."

"With respect, Bishop, we don't know how long Henry plans to keep you here, and you aren't safe within these walls. Outside, we can move you around and protect you. In here," Adrian waved, "you're at the King's mercy, and he has precious little of that nowadays."

"Surely you would know by now if I was in any true danger?"

"Henry wants you interrogated and forced to submit to his rule," Adrian said, revealing what he'd learned in the records room. "Or at least that's the official story."

"And unofficially?"

Adrian paused. "We don't know for sure, but given that Henry knows you're a friend of the Assassins, I would guess that he plans to torture you into revealing our identities. Most of us aren't well-known enough to be easily found, but Master Ludlum is a member of London's high society – however annoyed he may be by it – and that puts his wife and Charles in danger as well."

"And here I thought you might actually care about me."

"Unfortunately, your jokes haven't been very funny lately."

Fisher had to laugh at that, but he quickly sobered and said, "I understand the predicament, but I still think breaking me out would cause far too much trouble. For one thing, I'm a little old to do a runner. Besides, most of Henry' torturers focus too much on physical pain; I assure you, they'll kill me long before I say anything to incriminate Robert."

"I suppose we'll have to take that chance, given that the alternative is me killing you right now."

"Perhaps you should." Adrian's shock apparently showed on his face, because Fisher continued, "I'm an old man – I haven't much left to do with my life. My importance to Henry is my reputation, and my importance to you was all in that bundle of papers I left for Robert. If anything, leaving me alive only puts the Order in danger." The bishop's eyes glanced pointedly at Adrian's left arm, beneath the sleeve of which was concealed the hallmark blade of the Assassins.

"We don't abandon our friends, let alone murder them in cold blood," Adrian replied.

"If it helps, I could try putting up a fight; I simply doubt I would prove much of a challenge to someone barely a third my age." Adrian appreciated the attempt at levity, but he still couldn't quite reconcile the idea of cutting down John Fisher.

Finally the Assassin shook his head. "I won't kill you, Bishop. I'll see what we can do to get you out by lawful means, if any exist. In the mean time, I'll keep Henry's bloody-minded interrogators away from here as long as I can."

"Thank you, Adrian. I may not have much time left, but I'd rather not spend it screaming over a fire pit."

Adrian stood, straightening his borrowed uniform as he did. "Anything else before I take my leave?"

"One thing." Fisher leaned forward conspiratorially – not that anything else they'd discussed was perfectly within the law. "Henry's not like the others."

"The other Templars?"

"The other Templar _leaders_. Not that there are many other kinds – they don't really settle for second-in-command – but nonetheless. He's not like de Sable or Rodrigo or Selim; it isn't about furthering his Order's goals. He wants power for power's sake."

"That makes him a right selfish bastard, but what does it change?"

"It changes how he thinks, and how we have to out-think him. This whole Reformation business, and the founding of his new church – he's binding power to himself for his own gains, whatever they may be. It makes him vulnerable because he doesn't have the support of his peers in the Order, but it also makes him dangerous because he needs not worry about their interests. He will spit in the face of every monarch on the continent if it means holding on to his throne."

"What of Cromwell? He's implicit in this."

"Cromwell's a flatterer. A devious little weasel, but a flatterer. He only has power so long as Henry keeps him close."

"And without him, would Henry fail?"

"Not immediately. But his position would be greatly weakened."

"Noted. I'll see if I can't manage another visit in a month."

"Thank you, Adrian." The younger man grasped Fisher's wrist tightly, silently willing some of his strength into his elder. John Fisher would need it in the coming months. They parted, and Adrian strode to the door.

"Good luck, Bishop," Adrian said as he knocked loudly on the door. Fisher only nodded in reply as the door swung open. Adrian stepped outside, his face having already fallen into a perfect neutral mask that betrayed nothing of the decidedly treasonous conversation he'd just held. The Warders in the corridor simply nodded to him, having apparently heard nothing that went on within the cell. _Perfect_.

The Assassin made his way back to the records room where, predictably, Yeoman Cotton still waited. The drugged Warder was still asleep on his desk; Adrian hadn't underestimated the potency of the concoction. Amusingly, the mug was empty – Cotton had clearly helped himself. It was all for the best, really; this way it would look like the man had drunk himself unconscious, no matter what he told his superiors.

"Are you quite finished?" Cotton's tone was less than affable – which Adrian supposed was only to be expected, given that the man thought he was in danger of dying from something less than dignified. Adrian decided not to hold it against him – he was already lying to the man, might as well be polite.

"As a matter of fact, I am," the Assassin replied pleasantly. "Shall we?" When the Yeoman hesitated, Adrian prodded, "We should make it out of here just in time for your next dose of life."

It did the trick; Cotton led them out of the room and back towards the main gate. No challenges met them this time; it was likely that no one cared if you were leaving so long as you didn't have someone with you who wasn't meant to be on his way out. Just to play the part, Adrian nodded at the lone Warder who watched them leave, and the man nodded in return, weapon held loosely in lazy hands.

Once they had put some distance between them and the Tower, Adrian slipped a vial from his belt and pressed it into the Yeoman's hand. Adrian almost laughed when Cotton hurried to unstopper it and gulp down the supposedly precious liquid. To Cotton's mind, he'd just been given another hour or so of life. To Adrian's, he had simply bought more time to decide on his next move.

The immediate issue was what to do with Cotton now. While he was potentially useful as a future method of accessing the Tower as Adrian was likely to do, he could also do any number of things to complicate the Order's plans. If he so much as mentioned to another Yeoman what had happened to him – and Adrian really had no way of preventing him from doing so, short of spending every day with the man – Henry would find out that someone had been desperate to get into the Tower. Cotton would eventually reveal that his captor hadn't taken anything from the records room, which someone in Henry's court – Cromwell, more likely than not – would correctly interpret to mean that the infiltrator had wanted to speak with someone. There were only two choices, and Henry didn't really have a reason to keep either Thomas More or John Fisher alive if they were passing information of any kind to the king's enemies. At best, Adrian would simply have to find another way through the Tower's heightened security – a task that would probably be complicated by the description Cotton would give of his subjugator. At worst, both More and Fisher would be executed.

Of course, if one of the two Yeomen who had recently visited the Tower were to be found dead, it would raise questions about the whereabouts and identity of his companion. Even if no one immediately guessed a connection, there was a considerable risk that Henry or one of his lieutenants would order a manhunt – exactly the sort of thing Fisher wanted to avoid, although the target would be different. Simply making Cotton disappear – probably into the Thames with a rock tied to his waist – could cause the same problems, although it would take more time for anyone to realize that something was wrong.

"You don't have to kill me." Naturally Cotton had been pondering the same thing, though the outcome of Adrian's conundrum was probably of greater interest to the soldier.

"That's as may be, but you're more trouble alive than dead."

"I won't tell anyone about you."

"Could you keep that promise if someone had you stretched out on the rack?"

Cotton fell silent, having fully realized the danger of his situation.

After a moment's consideration, Adrian decided he would simply have to risk trusting the man to keep silent. It was the only solution he was willing to chance, all things considered; he would just have to terrify Cotton enough that the man wouldn't dream of betraying him.

"Listen to me very carefully. I'm not going to kill you today." Adrian had to keep himself from laughing when Cotton actually breathed a sigh of relief. "Instead I'm going to trust you, Nicolas, because you're the only one who can make this a problem. And I don't see any reason you should do that – do you?"

"You tried to kill me!" Cotton hissed.

Adrian feigned astonishment as he protested, "No I didn't! I saved your life!"

"You endangered it in the first place!"

"Oh, well, arguably _you _did that. I didn't force you to drunkenly wander around. Very poor conduct for one of the King's Own, really." Cotton had no reply to that, so Adrian continued. "Now listen up, because this next bit is of particular interest to you." The Assassin dropped all amiability from his tone; suddenly he sounded like some kind of harbinger of death. "Your life is yours only so long as what happened today remains a secret. You and I were sent to persuade John Fisher to recant his statements against the King and beg for Henry's mercy, and he refused. That's the end of the matter so far as we are concerned. You breathe a word of the truth to anyone, and you will have seen your last sunrise. Are we clear?"

Cotton didn't answer, so Adrian poked him in the kidney until he finally grunted what could have been taken for agreement.

"Very good, then." Adrian grabbed one of Cotton's hands and pressed three vials into the palm. "Those should last you the night," he explained as the Yeoman's fingers closed around the glass. "Just don't take them all at once. Cheerio. Oh, and you can keep the clothes." Before the man could say anything in reply, Adrian vanished into a side alley and – the soldier hoped – out of Cotton's life.

* * *

The trick with interrogation was finding something that was both excruciating and relatively harmless. The victim had to be forced to give up whatever secrets he was keeping, but killing him by accident would invalidate a lot of hard work. Torture of the mind was almost always sure to work, but most techniques took far too long. Physical torture was quick and brutally effective, but carried a high risk of creating a corpse instead of a willing captive.

While the Assassins weren't truly pressed for time, they needed answers as soon as possible in order to plan their next move against the king. Arthur was no expert in the art of harshly asking questions, and so he deferred to Mistress Ludlum's knowledge, content to play the part of henchman. He was no sadist, but there was a certain suppression of ethics that had to come with fighting their war. Unluckily for their guest, Annette Ludlum had decided to use a combination of techniques on him, all the better to get him to share his knowledge.

If he were to be honest, Arthur would admit that he wasn't actually sure whether the man had broken. He spoke very little French, and the spluttering was getting in the way of whatever their guest was trying to say. Nonetheless, he continued pouring water onto the man, who lay stripped, blindfolded, and bound to a chair lying on the ground. It was an effective technique because of how it simulated drowning, activating man's innate fear of death. Arthur himself had barely managed twenty seconds before begging to be let go when Master Ludlum had tested him on it – this Frenchman was probably nowhere near as hardy. Of course, water torture wasn't the only technique being used against him.

When the bucket in Arthur's hand was empty, he set it aside and hauled the chair upright, yanking the blindfold off with one hand. Before the captive could properly catch his breath, Arthur fired a powerful blow with a leather-wrapped fist into the man's jaw, knocking him onto his side. Arthur had underestimated his own strength; Frenchie spat blood and a broken tooth before gasping for air.

"I hope you're ready to talk," Mistress Ludlum said from where she stood next to a furnace, a leather apron worn over her fairly out-of-place dress protecting her from the flames she was stoking with an iron poker. "This is going to become very unpleasant otherwise." Setting aside the poker, she used a pair of tongs to pull a glowing scrap of metal from the furnace as she turned slowly to face their "guest", who only glared in defiance. Annette sighed and nodded to Arthur, who used one booted foot to push the man onto his back. Despite his boldness, the Frenchman's eyes were riveted to the red-hot iron coming closer and closer to his naked form. He renewed his struggles against his bonds when Annette stood right next to him.

"Let's try something simple," she told him . "Tell me your name, and I won't put this somewhere disagreeable."

"_Aller en enfer!_" Arthur had no idea what he had just heard, but it sounded like an insult.

"_Vous avez choisi mal," _Annette calmly replied before pressing the metal against the inside of the man's left knee. The man's scream was so loud that Arthur was tempted to cover his ears, but to do so would make it look like he hadn't done this sort of thing before – which was almost true, but it wouldn't do for Frenchie to know that.

Annette removed the metal after only a moment and returned it to the furnace, but the damage was done: a large red patch served as a visible indicator of the pain that was probably still coursing through the man's body. Despite his passive, almost bored expression, Arthur was inwardly cringing at the thought of what their "guest" was experiencing. He almost admired the man's tenacity, but couldn't imagine it would last much longer.

"Let's try that again," Mistress Ludlum said as she moved the iron around in the fire, reheating it. "What's your name?"

For a moment, it seemed as though Frenchie was going to resist her once more. Arthur was almost surprised when he spoke in a defeated tone: "Delacroix. _Je m'appelle _Ames Delacroix."

"See, that wasn't so hard. Arthur?"

Arthur knelt and grabbed Delacroix by the throat, taking care not to apply too much pressure. "Who sent you to Henry's aid? Your king?"

Delacroix tried to shake his head as he answered, "No. Even if François did not see Henry as a threat, he is busy with the war in _l'Italie_."

"Who, then?"

"It does not matter to you."

"What doesn't matter to me," Annette rejoined, having returned to the Frenchman's side with a newly-heated scrap of metal, "is where on your body I decide to place this. The only thing we need you to do is talk, which doesn't require most of your limbs. You might want to rethink your answer." To emphasize her point, she dangled the glowing iron over Delacroix's groin.

To his credit, the man managed to maintain his defiant expression until the iron was mere inches from his manhood, at which point he blurted, "Cop! Nicolas Cop! He sent us to Henry!"

"Nicolas Cop is a scholar, not a commander of warriors," Annette scoffed. "If you're going to lie to me – "

"Wait, wait!" When he saw Annette wasn't about to burn him further, Delacroix continued, "There are more. They gather support around Europe and send them to Henry. Once London is clear of the King's enemies, he has promised to lend his armies to the Protestant cause."

"And you believe him? Henry hasn't a single selfless bone in his body."

"Cop and his friends believe him, and that is what matters."

"Tell me about Cop's friends," a deep voice commanded. The two Assassins turned to watch Robert Ludlum enter. The Guild Master's arms, breeches and boots were stained with blood, while the leather vest he wore hung heavy with the same sweat that matted his hair to his forehead. The gore-soaked knife in his hand made him seem all the more terrible – the better to frighten Delacroix into continuing his cooperation.

"Two Dutchmen, four Germans. I know no names – Cop was our contact. I only met the others once."

"What else were they planning?"

Despite his initial recalcitrance, Delacroix was apparently now very eager to share what he knew. "To spread their recruiting efforts. One of them mentioned a town – Münster, somewhere in_ Allemagne_. They mean to make it their base of operations in the region."

Robert considered this information before kneeling down and placing the tip of his blade against the Frenchman's breast. "Here's the important question," he told Delacroix, pressing down just enough to draw a bead of blood. "How many of you were sent to London?"

"A dozen. Maybe more, but no more than twenty."

"That leaves around fifteen, then," Arthur commented. "And I'll wager they're not all Frenchies, so we're going to have a job of tracking them down."

"I can help you find them," Delacroix said suddenly. He'd probably realized that without any more information to volunteer, he was of no further use to the Assassins and therefore something that had to be disposed of without further ado.

"Give me names and safehouses," Robert commanded. "Orders, locations, who they answer to while within London." When Delacroix seemed unable to answer, the Master Assassin raised his eyebrows. "Nothing? Can you at least draw us some pretty pictures? I appreciate the offer, but we are very well trained in the art of detection, and we certainly don't need an amateur's bumbling efforts holding us back."

Delacroix swallowed nervously. "Then what happens now?"

Robert sighed, exchanging a glance with the other two Assassins. "What happens now," he said, taking the knife in a firmer grip, "is, we thank you for your contribution to our store of knowledge, and send you on your way." In a stunning display of speed, Robert drew the knife back and struck it through the man's temple, killing him instantly. He twisted the blade to be sure the man was dead before pulling it out and getting to his feet.

"Knifework training with pig carcasses," Annette said, guessing at where her husband had been before joining them in the interrogation room. She seemed to have already forgotten the fresh corpse.

Robert nodded as he shook blood off his weapon. "When you've disposed of our friend here," he said, addressing Arthur, "head down to the docks and see if you can't find the passenger lists of all ships from France in the last month. They lack our training, so they wouldn't have been smart enough to make the crossing on different vessels. Check for matching points and dates of departure."

"Not to question you, Master, but that's rather a lot of sorting for one man," Arthur stated.

"Fair point," Robert conceded. "Well, if you wait until the morrow, Adrian should be able to join you." The Guild Master paused, then added, "And you might do well to seek out the berth of the _Duchess_ before breaking into the harbormaster's office. It arrives tomorrow morning with another asset."

Arthur couldn't deduce the meaning of Robert's advice until Annette asked, "The _Duchess _sailed from Holland, didn't she?"

When Robert nodded, Arthur realized whom the Guild Master spoke of. "Ah. Her."

"Oh don't sound so put out," Robert scolded lightly. "She's only one rank above you."

"You wouldn't think it, listening to her," Arthur grumbled.

"Still, I'm sure her help would be more than welcome." Arthur couldn't argue with that assessment; he wasn't looking forward to hours – if not days – of trying to decipher someone's hasty scrawl. Robert tucked the knife into his belt and made for the door. "I expect those names within three days, before I leave for Germany."

"Germany?" The nonchalant announcement was apparently as surprising to Annette as to Arthur.

"Someone needs to go to Münster and sort this lot out," Robert explained, "_und ich spreche die Sprache besser als die beiden von Ihnen_."

"_Nur ein wenig,_" Annette replied, one eyebrow raised. Arthur had barely even caught, 'And I speak'.

"Bring me those names, Arthur," Robert said, opening the door. "We'll make our plans then." His wife followed him out, leaving Arthur alone with Delacroix's corpse.

"Well," Arthur said to the body as he untied it and began dragging it towards the still-burning furnace, "at least you don't have to worry about perfecting that accent."


End file.
